


A Long Road

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst galore, F/M, Gen, self-indulgent whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 49,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Robert Crawley unexpectedly inherits an estate, he had no idea his good fortune would be a catalyst of disaster. Now Bates and Thomas are in a struggle for their lives that will prove to rattle the occupants of Downton. Multi-chapter, multi-character fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ludbrook Manor

As the carriage came to a stop in front of the manor, Thomas expelled a sigh of relief. The last six hours had been spent riding in a hostile silence with his fellow passenger, Mr. Bates. Neither had wished to speak with one another since they had left Downton that morning. The valet shared Thomas' relief when they arrived at Ludbrook Manor, as the awkward animosity had only exacerbated an already trying journey.

The ride's only redeeming feature had been the view it had afforded either man, as neither had seen that part of the Yorkshire Dales before. Both had marvelled at the enclosed and precarious laneways lined by old, giant ash trees that they had traversed before reaching the dales further west. They had also quietly enjoyed the sight of bright limestone ridges and the grassy plateaus littered with gnarled hawthorne bushes.

Ludbrook Manor made an impressive sight, nestled as it was in a relatively untouched portion of Craven. Far was it from the majesty of Downton, its modest half-timbered façade stood in stark and stately contrast to the beautiful green vistas surrounding it. It was accompanied to the east by an old stable and what looked to be a small, one-room hut. As Thomas scrambled out of the carriage door, he thought it had its own peculiar charm despite its relatively small size.

As he was exiting his own vehicle, the trailing carriages arrived in front of the manor. The first was empty save for the coachman sitting atop it and was brought for storage purposes. The second and more spacious one held Lord Grantham and Branson. Keeping an eye to the landscape before him, Thomas grasped the handle of the lord's carriage and swung it open.

"Ah, thank you, Barrow. I hope the ride was not too tiresome for you," Lord Grantham greeted the under-butler as he stepped out.

With a bow, Thomas replied falsely, "Not a' tall, my lord. The dales are a beautiful sight."

He held his bow until Branson exited the vehicle.

"That they are. Ah – and here we finally are! The mysterious manor," Robert walked toward the door of the house, as Branson stood and attempted to stretch subtly. Just as Mr. Bates and the young coachmen assembled in front of their own carriages, a tall, greying man came around from the side of the building.

"Greetings and welcome, Lord Grantham, is it?" He walked quickly towards the earl with his hand outstretched.

"Yes, and I presume you are Mister Rhodes?" Robert met the other and shook his hand briefly before introducing him to Branson.

"You presume correctly," the man smiled and opened his arms wide, "I hope you had a pleasant journey. As you can see, it is a stunning landscape you've inherited."

In an uncharacteristic stroke of luck, Robert had been bequeathed the manor and some of the land surrounding it. The property had originally belonged to Raymond Ludbrook, a kind but quiet man whom Robert had met years before when Mary was still a babe in arms. Their last meeting occurred just before Ludbrook purchased the property and became a recluse within the manor's walls. The man had never taken a wife nor had he sired any children. His manor, unlike Downton, was never an entailed property, and his title was insignificant compared to Robert's earldom. Ludbrook had not been close to his remaining, albeit very distant, family. In fact, he had rarely spoke with anyone not in his employ, as he had devoted his time to cultivating his gardens and exploring the dales surrounding his manor.

So it was with great surprise that Robert accepted the news of his inheritance. He had not supposed he had imparted any lasting impression upon Ludbrook after their last meeting. Out of sheer formality, the Crawleys had extended an annual invitation to the older man at Christmas, which Ludbrook had respectfully declined each time. Unbeknownst to the Crawleys, their indifferent attempts had not gone unappreciated by Ludbrook, who had received fewer and fewer correspondences with each year spent in seclusion. Without a family, he decided to name Robert as his sole beneficiary.

"I was assured your own lawyer had gone over the details of the estate with you before you embarked," Mr. Harold Rhodes, Ludbrook's lawyer, said as he clasped his hands behind his back.

He patted a bulge in the front of his tweed suit jacket, as he explained, "I have here the specifics of the will and deed that will require your signature before I leave. Unfortunately, I must leave you now, as I have business to attend to in Grassington later this evening."

Robert nodded graciously, "Of course, let us not delay you. I don't suspect we will need much assistance in the following days."

An odd look graced the lined lawyer's face, "No, I suppose not. Although," he paused, "can I just say – Ludbrook was rather occupied by his gardens. The beauty you see here never followed him indoors."

Robert frowned briefly before Mr. Rhodes continued, "I just wish to prevent any undue shock. Come – we'll go to the kitchens to sign these and I'll give you the keys."

"Leave our things for now, Barrow. Bates, I'll only be a moment," Robert said as he and Branson followed the lawyer around the side of the manor.

Thomas eyed Mr. Bates, who was leaning heavily on his cane; the hours spent sitting had aggravated the ruined muscles in his leg, and John had found it painfully stiff upon standing. The under-butler chose to ignore the other's man discomfort and turned his attentions to the scenery with a subtle roll of his eyes.

He decided against pulling his cigarette case from his pocket, as he was not keen on being caught smoking should the earl return earlier than expected. Instead, he enjoyed the bright sunshine that had miraculously followed them their entire trip. It served the country side well, brightening its grassy knolls. Thomas could spot forget-me-nots and bluebells that had muscled into the grasses and wondered idly how Ludbrook's gardens faired in comparison to the natural beauty of the area.

He was glad he had not lit a cigarette, for Mr. Rhodes had soon reappeared around the corner of the manor, closely followed by the earl and his son-in-law. John withdrew his weight from his cane and righted his posture, just as Thomas and the coachmen straightened their backs.

"Greatest of luck to you. I hope you can bring the manor back to its original glory. I'll return in at noon on the day of your departure, to ensure everything has gone smoothly." He nodded shortly.

"Thank you. I believe we'll need all the luck we can get," he shared a rue smile with Branson, "We'll see you in two days' time."

As the lawyer took his leave towards the stables, the lord turned towards his servants.

"Well, those certainly have been an enlightening few moments."

"Makes one consider the virtues of sleeping amongst the bluebells, doesn't it?" Branson remarked.

That Lord Grantham had not disputed Branson's comment raised Thomas' suspicions and Mr. Bates' as well – if his raised eyebrows said anything.

"Certainly it makes one heartsick for Downton. Bates, why don't you follow us in through the kitchens. Thomas, have George and Lewis take our luggage in through the front door before they manage the horses with Albert. One of us will be there to meet you momentarily."

* * *

"Mr. Bates, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. de Mar. He was Ludbrook's cook and the only remaining staff member here." Robert gestured towards a slight, scraggly man. "He'll remain here until we leave, as he has agreed to prepare us our meals while we… assess the manor."

John nodded at the cook while his concern for the manor growing. The kitchen, though small, seemed normal and clean enough.

"Now, I'll expect us to be busy until this evening, so don't trouble yourself with any luncheon. And a full dinner won't be necessary, obviously, just a tea for all of us should suffice."

De Mar's eyes widened slightly at the mention of dinner and nodded in quick succession at the idea of tea. Having only cooked for Ludbrook, the groundskeeper, and himself, he rarely had reason to prepare anything elaborate – and he assumed rightly that Robert Crawley was used to such meals.

"Yessir – I mean, Yes. My. Lord." De Mar enunciated, clearly unsure of how to treat his guests, having had a much more casual relationship with Ludbrook. Branson worked to control a grin in response.

Robert, for his part, was oblivious to the cook's discomfort and continued on, "Now, Bates, we'll have you wait for Thomas at the door. You'll see soon why we're a bit hesitant to get started."

He led Branson and John through the doorway to a set of well-worn stairs leading up to the main floor.

"As you'll see in a moment, it's quite… unkempt, to say the least," Robert threw over his shoulder.

As John ascended the stairs and entered what looked to be a sitting room, he realised Lord Grantham was being generous; unkempt was putting it lightly.

Ludbrook's lawyer had been correct. For all of his attention spent to his grounds, it seemed he had been totally uninterested in the upkeep of his house. The derelict room was in a state of extreme disarray and neglect. Many of the possessions had been left tossed and forgotten in mounds of rubbish collected in the corners of the room, while the furniture sat dirtied and piled high with various papers and random items. Much of the room was thickly blanketed by cobwebs, which made John assume the room was little more than a warehouse for forgotten things. The smell of mould and mildew was overpowering.

"Unfortunately, the other rooms that we've seen share a similar theme of … disorganisation," Robert lamented, "Just through there is the main hall where Thomas will be coming through. We've not yet ascertained where the bedrooms are, but it's safe to assume they're upstairs. Tom and I will explore there while you wait for Thomas; then we'll get started."

"Of course, whenever you're ready, my Lord," Mr. Bates said as he took towards the hall.

Lord Grantham's plan had been to spend the next two days investigating the property and collecting any small and valuable items to bring back with them to Downton. The less desirable or large belongings would be left so they could be moved, sold, or destroyed at a later date. This course of action was made before the true nature of the manor was known. Judging from his cursory look at the first sitting room, John assumed there was going to be more destroyed than originally expected.

He had stood for only a moment in the hall before a large bang rang out and the front door swung open violently with Thomas following its swinging arc. The under-butler barely caught himself before he met the floor with his face.

At the valet's raised eyebrows and small smirk, Thomas defended, "The bloody latch stuck. It's as if it hasn't been used in years."

He wiped his hand against his suit jacket – offended by the grime left by the handle – and moved out of the way for the two coachmen carrying the earl's luggage.

"Just put those down here," Mr. Bates directed, "I think I'm beginning to see a pattern."

He did not elaborate when Thomas threw a confused look his way. He merely smiled in anticipation of their work and said, "Just you wait."

* * *

Thomas was not pleased when he discovered Mr. Bates' meaning. Nor could he understand why it had tickled the valet so much in the hall. As it was now early evening, they had worked through plenty of dust, cobwebs, and filth, and the servants were sporting most of the dirt on their persons – Mr. Bates included.

The seven men had first inspected the upstairs rooms under the guise that they would get the hardest part of manoeuvring any objects down the stairs out of the way first. Lord Grantham had directed the others towards their duties, and Branson attempted to lend a helping hand; however, the dirtier and more taxing jobs of moving furniture went to the servants.

They had found that the bedrooms matched the sitting room in its mess. Even Ludbrook's own was in state of bedlam, with various refuse like newspapers and clothing covering the floor so thickly that it was nearly impossible to move about freely.

There was a partially cleared path leading from the door to the bed, but the mattress itself was covered in books and more rubbish. Only a small sliver at the edge of the bed was free from litter, which was where Thomas guessed Ludbrook must have slept, curled up tight each night.

Thomas curled his lips up in disgust at the state of the room and wondered how someone could be so careless. If he owned a place like Ludbrook Manor, he would be sure to use it properly; everything would be put in its place neatly and shining brightly. At the very least, he would not allow valuable books to lay forgotten on the ground where others could step on them.

While the others were going through the items on the floor and bookshelves, the under-butler had been given the task of clearing the bed free of debris and dressing it for his lordship. He had done the same for the guest bedroom they had already cleaned, for another reason why they had chosen with these rooms was to have suitable rooms in which Lord Grantham and Branson could sleep. As there were no maids present, such a task had to be done by one of the men; he was the lucky one chosen by the earl.

As the sun began to set, no word had yet been said about where the servants would sleep, and the further Thomas delved into the dirt, the more he began to worry about his own sleeping quarters. Unfortunately, Ludbrook had not thought to retrofit the manor with electricity before he died, so the Downton men were working against the clock.

Much to Robert's dismay, the afternoon had been spent doing what could only be called damage control. Not much of the items were worth salvaging or even selling. His mood had slowly grown sour when the condition of his inheritance set in over the course of the afternoon.

Just as Thomas had smoothed out the final blanket over the bed, Mr. de Mar walked through the door carrying a large tray. It was full of breads and cheeses. Without even realising it, Thomas had worked up an appetite and felt his stomach gurgle at the sight. The way the others eyed de Mar made him think it was a condition shared by everyone.

"Hullo, my Lord – I have the tea you asked for. Just some cheeses and the like. Made 'em m'self." The cook said with a smile, announcing himself in an uncommonly casual manner.

Robert took a step away from the bookshelf he had been perusing, "Ah, thank you de Mar. You may set it," he paused as he eyes swept the room, "anywhere free, I suppose."

The cook found a cleared Pembroke table near the windows and set his tray on its surface. He stepped backwards towards the door.

"If there's anything else, Lord Grantham, I'll take my leave."

"No, I think that should do."

De Mar nodded and turned to leave the bedroom when Branson spoke up.

"Actually, if you don't mind – are there any additional bedrooms? Our… men will need places to sleep as well," he said, clearly unsure of how to speak of the servants.

The cook's eyes widen slightly in thought. He brought up his index finger as he replied, "Oh, yes! There's a small outbuilding near the stables. The groundskeeper used that before Ludbrook passed, so it has a bed and stove."

He looked at the five dishevelled servants in the room apologetically, "I'm sorry but we didn't need much out here with just the three of us. There are plenty of blankets you can use for the floor though!"

Thomas could not help but lift his eyebrows incredulously at the mention of anyone sleeping on the ground. He even looked towards Mr. Bates to see if he shared his disbelief, but the valet was staring at the cook with an impressive poker face. The way the other man levelled his stare at the cook, however, had Thomas guessing he was uninterested in the idea of sleeping on anything other than a bed.

"And where do you sleep, de Mar?" Robert asked, clearly disturbed by the unusual arrangement Ludbrook had. He had as much assumed that Ludbrook had not employed a butler or housekeeper by the state of his rooms, but he had expected the manor to be fitted with proper accommodations for servants.

"I have me own room near the kitchens. Of course, someone could stay there tonight, but I only ever needed one bed, sir, so it'll be the floors there too."

"Right," Robert nodded, "Well we'll alert you of our decision after we eat. I'll leave this up to their discretion," he concluded, gesturing towards Mr. Bates and Thomas.

* * *

They ultimately decided against using the cook's quarters and all five servants shared the former groundkeeper's lodgings instead, which turned out to be the smaller building Thomas had spotted to the east of the manor when they had first arrived. True to de Mar's words, it had its own stove that would ward against the chill. It also allowed them to heat the water they used to scrub off the day's filth.

Each had cleaned themselves in rotation while the others changed. The corners were the only areas that afforded some privacy, but the camaraderie between the coachmen spread a sense of ease with everyone and it wasn't as awkward as John and Thomas had worried it would be. Being the first to wash and change, John had made a pot of tea for the others.

Of course, Mr. Bates secured the small bed due to his age and injured leg, which was how Thomas found himself annoyed and lying on the hard ground amongst the coachmen. The size of the room allowed a decent amount of space between each man, but the blankets did little to protect from how hard or cold the floor was. Like everything else from the manor, their musty odour made Thomas feel ill.

"What a pig sty. Give me the place and I'll make it worthy of itself." Thomas said as he tried to arrange himself in a comfortable position.

"Tell us, Thomas, who would give you such a manor?" John smirked as he sat atop his blankets, finishing the last of his tea.

The young coachmen shared a smile.

"I'm only saying it's a disgrace the state of the place." Thomas stared at the valet unblinkingly, in hopes that his stare would one day bore straight through the man's skull.

"You'd never catch me dead in a place like this – clean or not," admitted the darker haired coachman from his place on the floor. They had learned earlier that he was George. Lewis, the auburn haired and slightly younger one, nodded his head in agreement. The oldest coachman of the three, Albert, remained silent and could have been asleep by anyone's guess.

"You can't be serious," Thomas said in disbelief. The manor, despite being not even a shadow of Downton, was far greater than any of them could hope to ever achieve in life. Even Mr. Bates, who shared a modest cottage with his wife, was living a fortunate life for a servant.

"Place gives me the proper chills," George shook his head, "I'd be looking over me shoulders every chance I got."

Lewis laughed, "As if you don't already!"

"And what do you call what you were doing today, eh? I caught you lookin' over yours more than once."

"It's funny you should say that," Thomas added casually, "considerin' the history of the place."

The under-butler worked hard not to let a smile show when his statement caused both coachmen to lift themselves up on their elbows and turn to look at him. They both shared looks of concerned scepticism.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe I shouldn't say, if you're going to be so sensitive about it. I thought you already knew," Thomas said with a shrug, as he shifted his eyes to look at the ceiling.

"We're not sensitive," George said.

Thomas arched his eyebrow, "We can't have a coachman who'd spook his own horses."

"You can't say something like that and not tell us!" Lewis looked pale as his imagination had clearly taken hold.

The under-butler made a show of deliberating on whether or not to tell them. Mr. Bates looked unimpressed but remained silent.

"Well, years before this Ludbrook bloke bought the place, it was owned by a wealthy wool-merchant. He had a loving wife, a couple of beautiful daughters, and had plenty of servants working here fillin' the place up. The place was said to have been almost as busy as Downton. And everyone loved him 'cause he was a generous man and a kind master – like His Lordship.

"But then one day, he returned from a walk in the hills a changed man. Suddenly no one could do right by him. Even his daughters bore the brunt of his fury and many a time they wore the bruises to prove it."

"And then after a while, the people in town stopped hearing from them. And since he was such a big merchant, it didn't take long for some o' them to come down looking for 'm."

George and Lewis stared, both gripped by the story.

"What they found frightened and disturbed the townsfolk."

Thomas lowered his voice and the coachmen leaned in closer.

"When they entered the manor, it was deadly quiet – couldn't find no one stirring and that's 'cause in the dining hall, they found the lifeless bodies of all the servants sat 'round the table, ready to dine. The table was set and full of food that had gone fusty, 'cause they had all expired before they could enjoy it.

Upstairs, they found the daughters strung up bloo–"

"Thomas!" John interrupted wearily.

He cleared his throat and threw a look towards the valet, "They were found… in a bad way. And when they got to the kitchens, they found his wife stuffed in the oven burnt alive."

After a pregnant pause, George finally asked, "And? What about the merchant?"

Thomas quirked his lips, "Oh, they never found him. They figured he had ran for the hills. At least, that's what the story was since they couldn't find hide nor hair of 'm.

"It wasn't 'till daft old Ludbrook came along that they could sell the place on account of the events. They say the halls are still haunted by the servants and his family bemoaning their fates. Things get moved around, and sometimes they reach out and touch you right here," he dragged a finger lightly across the crown of his head, "ever so softly to let you know they're there."

A pregnant pause followed.

"I don't believe it," George said weakly.

"You don't have to believe it, but give me another reason why Ludbrook spent so much time in his gardens."

Lewis looked towards the valet, "What do you think, Mr. Bates?"

"Old places like these are bound to have a history," he added vaguely with a shrug, "But I do think we should get to bed if tomorrow is anything like today."

The valet turned the dial of the oil lamp sitting on the night table next to his bed and extinguished the flame, allowing the room to darken. The remaining embers of the stove cast a dull glow across the room. Thomas allowed a grin to break out as he turned over his to side and curled up in the blankets. The labours of the day left him exhausted, and sleep soon claimed him. The others also fell into slumber just as rapidly, and soon the outbuilding was full of the snores of five men sleeping.


	2. Homeward Bound and Bounded

The next day continued in the same fashion as the one before it. Once Mr. Bates had dressed Lord Grantham – Branson again refused any help from Thomas – and everyone had breakfasted, they set their sights on the main floor's rooms.

They too were disorganised and filthy. The servants often jumped from their tasks as large spiders and centipedes were disturbed from their hiding places. Outside, the weather reflected the overall mood of the group, for the sun from the previous day was hidden by clouds loosening a constant drizzle upon the manor.

Once again, Thomas found himself dishevelled and was dismayed to realise his hair had turned a peculiar shade of grey from dust and webs. Seeing Mr. Bates and the other servants in similar states of disarray only darkened his mood further.

He did, however, feel satisfaction in catching both George and Lewis frantically smooth over their hair in the same area that Thomas had pointed out during his tale. It was all he could do to keep a straight face when they had reached the dining hall. Their spooked behaviour even caught the attention of Lord Grantham, but – fortunately for Thomas – they did not explain in detail what had worried them.

Despite the overall neglect of Ludbrook's former belongings, the earl had found enough items to fill several trunks. With the help of Mr. Bates, Thomas was sorting through an impressive set of silverware that had likely never been used when Lord Grantham suggested a break. The earl had done little more than direct the others, so Thomas doubted his own need for a rest but was grateful nonetheless.

"Alright, I think we deserve a pause," he gestured towards Lewis, "Lewis tell Mr. de Mar that we are in need of tea – and the stronger the better."

As Lewis left the others, Robert continued with a sigh, "I doubt we shall find a hidden treasure in any of the remaining rooms. I had no idea he was such a… well I don't even know what accounts for this."

"It is rather unusual – all this gone to waste." Branson agreed and matching Thomas' own thoughts from the other day; however, he concealed from his father-in-law the anger he felt for Ludbrook's ability to squander his wealth and the system that allowed it to happen.

The earl pursed his lips, "In any case, I think we could send a carriage home with some of the trunks before we sup. Albert, if you leave around noon, would there be enough sunlight to light your arrival at Downton?"

Albert nodded, "Yes, m'lord. I should suppose I'd arrive with an hour or so to spare before it's too dark to see by."

"Splendid. Then it's settled. You'll drive one of the wagons home this afternoon and let Carson know of our plans. Mr. Bates and Mr. Barrow will follow the next morning with any more trunks we can fill today."

Mr. Bates spoke up, "My lord? Are we to follow your carriage?" He was worried about his employer's plans and dared to question him.

Robert merely smiled, "No, Bates. I think we'll leave in the afternoon. I still have to see Mr. Rhodes once more before we leave, and I shall have to terminate Mr. de Mar's employment with some sort of reference."

"And we should like to see some of the property before we leave," Branson added.

"Yes," his father-in-law agreed, "and it would allow you two enough time to unload and prepare yourselves for our arrival before the dinner at Downton."

Meanwhile, Lewis had found the cook loitering in the kitchens and informed him of the earl's wishes.

"Can I just ask you a question, Mr. de Mar?"

The cook started to prepare the teapot as he nodded his consent, "Go ahead, son."

"Only – I wanted to know how ya managed to work here?"

"Oh I don't know. Ludbrook was a very fine man," he placed the kettle over the fire, "but I suppose I'm not to work here for much longer," he said grimly.

"No, I mean – just with the history and all." Lewis thought he was very clearly implying the events that Thomas had relayed the night before

The cook paused to think for a moment, and when he spoke he looked close to tears, "I suppose we did have a bit of a history. That man more than made up for any eccentricities you might've heard about."

Lewis pulled a face, assuming de Mar was speaking of touchy apparitions, and turned to leave.

De Mar looked confused when the coachman left his kitchen paler than when he had arrived, and yelled to his retreating back, "Tell his Lordship I'll be there promptly!"

He decided to include a bottle ofLudbrook's rye on the tray next to the teapot.

The next day, Thomas reminded himself of the fact that, had he remained at Downton with the others, chances were he would have been put to work towards an equally menial and thankless task. A more pessimistic part of him supposed that, on the other hand, it was unlikely Carson could have dreamed up a chore quite as taxing. The under-butler stopped to swipe at the rain dripping down his brow and squirmed ever-so slightly as he felt some droplets trickle down the back of his collar.

"Just one more, Barrow, and then we shall see you off," Lord Grantham encouraged from his dry position below the eavestroughs in front of the manor's door.

Thomas took a deep breath to steal himself before he hefted another large trunk onto the back of a packed carriage. That morning, George, Lewis, and he had been loading it and the earl's vehicle with trunks under the barrage of rain. It had took nearly thirty minutes, and the heavy labour had Thomas flushing despite the cool downpour.

The activity had been closely monitored by Robert Crawley and Branson. Mr. Bates also enjoyed a spot beneath the eaves, as he had been conveniently excused from assisting Thomas due to his injured leg.

Before starting the weighty task, Thomas had thrown a smirk at the valet, for once again the man was unable to fulfill duties required of the job; once he had stepped into the rain, however, Thomas quickly realised who enjoyed the last laugh. John did indeed enjoy the look of abject misery that showed on Thomas' face when he thought no-one was looking, and he did appreciate his own refuge from the rain; however, he took no pleasure in seeing the other three men work freely in ways he never could.

As the last trunk was secured against the back of the carriage, Thomas ran for the protection of the roof and was followed closely by George and Lewis. He dragged a hand down his face before he used it to slick his hair back into place.

"That's the last of them, m'lord."

"Yes, good. Lewis will drive your carriage back for you. Barrow, you can advise Carson that we are to arrive approximately an hour before dinner. Bates, you can expect me in my rooms around that time."

The under-butler and the valet nodded in unison.

"I do hope this rain lets up soon or else we won't see much of those dales, Tom."

The other man shrugged, "Perhaps it's best if we get back to Downton faster than naught." He was thinking of the six long hours in-carriage spent with his father-in-law and figured he would have enough quality time with the man as it was.

"Hmm, I believe the saying goes 'make haste while the sun shines'. I suppose we are paying for it now." Robert said with a smile before he realised his servants were still standing at attention.

"In any case, I don't want to delay your departure any more than I already have. Go, and have a safe journey. We'll see you later this evening."

Thomas nodded quickly and ran for the door to his carriage, while Mr. Bates attempted to hurry behind him. Lewis, the unfortunate soul, merely adjusted his cap and climbed to his seat fixed to the front of the vehicle. Grabbing the reigns, he directed the two horses to turn towards the road and hunched against the rain.

Inside the carriage, Thomas let out a deep sigh and began to strip himself of his suit jacket. Fortunately, the rain had only soaked through it at the seams, dampening his shirt at the shoulders. His collar and where the rain trickled down his back were wet, however, and lest he stripped entirely in front of Mr. Bates, he would have to spend the remainder of the trip uncomfortable.

He was still settling in his seat when the carriage pulled out of the manor's lane and started its trek towards Downton. Across from him, the valet was twirling with his cane. The two fell into the same awkward silence that plagued them on their way to the manor. Both set their sights outside their windows as the rain continued to beat down from above.

Thomas was unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep as the carriage began to rock in earnest now that they had reached high fells. He alternated between resting his eyes and focusing his attentions outside to the sodden grasses. He spotted a group of cattle that had been absent during their journey up.

"Why did you insist on telling the others that horrendous tale?" Mr. Bates asked the next time the under-butler opened his eyes, half-curious, half desperate to fill the silence after an hour and a half had passed. The false ghost story had dogged George and Lewis for the remainder of their stay at Ludbrook Manor, making the two comically skiddish.

Thomas blinked mildly before responding, "Same reason you didn't set them straight, I suppose."

The valet shook his head with a wry smile.

"Lewis is impressionable. That de Mar said something to worry him," John began to wonder why he bothered to speak to the other man, as it felt as stilted and awkward as the silence, "His Lordship thought it was endearing."

"You told Lord Grantham," Thomas blurted out flatly, more as a statement than a question.

"Thomas, you of all people should understand Lord Grantham's forgiving nature," Mr. Bates said in exasperation, "He thought it well played once I told him what was bothering those two. It was rather apt considering the state of that place." John was irritated by how thoughtless the under-butler could be.

He lifted of his brow and added with an undercurrent of derision, "I don't dare to ask what made you think of the details."

Thomas merely shrugged, "I wonder what he'll do with all that junk."

"It's not ours to know lest he decides to tell us," Mr. Bates said as he looked outside the window.

The two lapsed back into stunted silence, and Thomas quickly drew out a cigarette for lack of anything else to do. Neither man deigned to speak with the other again, content to doze to the sound of the rain pounding against the carriage. Above them, Lewis sat hunched against the chilling barrage as it grew in intensity and did his best to keep the horses on their path.

They had reached the part of their route that brought them closer to town, though they were still far from it. The unguided path amongst the fields had evolved into an edged, narrow road. On the left side of carriage was a stone wall built partially into the hillside, its incline covered with leafy plants and strong ash trees creating cover from the rain. To the carriage's right, less than a metre of grassy ground buffered the road before it plunged into a steep and craggy ravine. Large trees grew upwards despite its sharp incline, and a vibrant underbrush grew amongst large stones.

Lewis was guiding the horses along a curve in the road when a sharp clap of thunder unexpectedly erupted right over the carriage. The abrupt crack was deafening and physically shook the carriage and the ground it drove over.

The two horses whinnied and pulled at their reigns. One reared its legs, desperate to escape the thunder's clutches. Its partner bayed and bucked. The carriage behind them creaked and shook. Lewis tried in vain to control and calm either beast as they pulled at their harnesses in terror. In a panic, the horses bolted straight despite the curve in the road and kicked towards the ravine, pulling the carriage and its horrified coachman behind them.

Inside, the two men could all but hold onto their seats as they followed the horses over the edge. The last thing that either saw was the other's panicked face before a stomach-flipping drop slipped away and their world fractured into disordered pain and darkness.


	3. A Study of Driftwood

The valet awoke to a steady trickle of rainwater dripping on his cheek. Did the cottage roof spring a leak during the night? He grumbled at the thought of more repairs. His whole body ached, and he attempted to stretch out the kinks he had acquired during sleep.

But his right arm was trapped between his body and a firm, wooden surface, and his left hand struck a larger, harder body that definitely did not belong to his wife.

His eyes shot open in alarm.

His hand had hit Thomas, who was lying motionless across from him. The under-butler was crumbled against the side of the carriage, unconscious and head turned. John realised that he was in a similar position pressed against the side of the carriage.

He laid still for a moment breathing loudly in an attempt to situate himself.

Memories of the carriage driving over the edge came back to him slowly. The fall itself was a patchy black wasteland and his mind was startlingly blank. His heart pounded painfully.

"Thomas?" His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and called the under-butler again.

Thomas gave no response and continued to lie motionless.

With extreme effort, John righted himself by pushing against the walls of the carriage. It felt as though he was fighting against gravity, and he realised that he was, for the carriage had landed on its side. Overhead, the opposite side with its door was orientated towards the sky.

With a large groan, he brought his legs towards him into a squat and pushed himself upright. He teetered for a moment before balancing against the seats that now ran vertically beside him. Luckily the distance between each side from door to door was slight, and at full height he stood with his head and shoulders out of the door. John clamoured at the sides to pull himself out, and he struggled to clear the door.

A yelp escaped him as a sharp pain coursed through his leg when he jumped down to the ground. He drew a deep breath and took stock of himself. He found that only his ribs and shoulder of the side he had woke up on had any pain. Unsurprisingly, his bad leg complained loudly, but John barely considered the familiar ache. The rest of his body was littered with scrapes that went unnoticed.

He did notice that the ruined carriage had come to rest on the floor of the ravine. Their descent crashed through most of the bushes along the sides, but – miraculously – they had missed the larger and more dangerous trees and rocks. He could vaguely see where the incline turned into levelled road.

The valet clutched at the carriage as he limped around the vehicle. John had to close his eyes at the sight before him.

The two horses were entwined in a broken heap with their legs bent in unnatural directions. A large branch had pierced one through the neck and had broken through the other's chest. Both had died before John had awoken, and he hoped that it was at least quick.

He continued his faltering steps around the perimeter of the carriage worried with what else he might find.

"Christ!" He cried out and covered his mouth in sorrow.

Lewis' lower body lay trapped underneath the body of the carriage. The boy's neck was twisted wrongly, and his eyes cast an empty stare out across the underbrush.

John gripped at the body of the carriage as his breathing became erratic and his heart thudded against his ribs. His world began to grey at the edges. He stared wide-eyed at the boy for a moment before he realised shakily that he had left Thomas in the carriage.

"Thomas!" He yelled and scrambled for the door he had just exited.

With a strength he did not know he had, he lifted himself onto the side of the carriage. His added weight shifted the vehicle slightly, but it took the mass well enough.

He looked down towards the under-butler who had still not moved.

"Thomas?" He called, his voice pitched high with desperation and fright.

After a few moments and plenty of calls, John noticed the other man twitch faintly. It was soon followed by a low groan.

"Yeah, that's it Thomas. Wake up – hey!"

The under-butler jerked hard and moaned weakly. Thomas began to paw unco-ordinatedly at the carriage sides and drew himself shakily onto his hands and knees.

"Thomas? I'm here; look up."

The younger man made no outwardly sign that he heard the valet. He continued to sway and kept his head hung low between his shoulders.

John had not thought his concern for the under-butler could grow any more, but at this his chest clenched in worry.

"Thomas? Are you okay? Look at me."

After what felt like too long, Thomas finally shifted his weight to his bent legs and looked up to Mr. Bates with a squint.

John gasped at the sight of blood trailing from Thomas' hairline. The stream had poured over his left brow, pooling across his cheek bone, and it flowed around his ear and lower jaw where it disappeared into his hair. More blood had seeped from his nose and lips, making small islands out of unblemished skin. He blinked heavily a few times before focusing on the older man.

"Mr. Bates?" He said with a frown, not fully comprehending their positions.

"The carriage fell on its side. You'll have to climb out through here."

John let go of a breath he hadn't known he had held when Thomas nodded and managed to drag himself to a standing position. The valet moved further back on the carriage's side to give the other man room to exit. The under-butler grasped tightly at the doorway for a few seconds before he clumsily dragged himself out of the opening and tumbled ungainly on to the ground with a pained yelp.

There he was content to remain and blinked dazedly at the tree boughs.

"Jesus, are you alright?"

Thomas brought a hand to his forehand, unintentionally smearing the blood and transfering it to his hand.

He slurred, "'m fnn."

He dropped his hand and propped himself on his elbows with a groan.

"What 'appened?"

"The thunder must have spooked the horses. The damned beasts went straight for the ravine," John swallowed audibly, "Lewis, he –"

"We were ridin' horses?" Thomas asked hazily. His face screwed up in thought; his puzzlement exceeded what John thought the situation warranted. And Thomas _was_ puzzled because there was no way he would ever agree to ride through the country on horseback with Mr. Bates; he was sure of it.

"What? No – we were in the carriage," John frowned and climbed down from his perch as quickly as his body would allow. Confusion made way for concern.

"The carr'ge. Right." Thomas knew what a carriage was, but how one now applied to their situation was beyond him. Or how he suddenly employed a newly acquired skill of riding with the valet, of all people. It all seemed rather strange.

Bates crashed next to the younger man, heedless of his leg or his ribs. He gripped Thomas' chin and craned the under-butlers face towards him. The younger man's eyes briefly met John's before they rolled erratically at their surroundings, failing to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds.

John turned his face and looked closely at the head wound. He could only tell that the cut was long and had bled considerably while Thomas had laid in the carriage for however long that they were both unconscious. He couldn't figure how deep it went, but by now, it had all but stopped and coagulated.

The fact that Thomas didn't protest at his ministrations made John worry just as much as the blood did.

"So," Thomas dragged out, "you and me're ridin' in a carr'ge 'xactly?" He had finally understood that they were _in_ the carriage and thankfully, not riding without abandon atop horses.

John floundered for a moment, "We were returning to Downton. Thomas, do you not remember?"

The younger man's eyes had locked onto the over turned vehicle and was silent for a time. His mind worked furiously to connect the dots John had laid out for him.

"Ludbrook's haunted house. Yeah, we were…" Thomas trailed off and waved a hand loosely, "Yeah, I remember."

John was relieved to see a bit more lucidity in the under-butlers eyes and released a deep sigh. The alarming slurring had all but disappeared.

He was not accustomed to feeling such concern for the younger man and didn't think he could handle much more. John found that he was trembling ever so slightly. The shock of the events had begun to set it. The underbrush wasn't as sodden as it could have been due to the overhanging boughs of the trees, but the chill of the damp ground only worsened his tremors.

Thomas was unconcerned by the damp or mud and moved into a sitting position to cradle his head. His breaths came in deep, wearisome huffs that rocked his body. The rain water leeching into his clothing was ignored in favour of coping with the waves of vertigo assaulting him.

"What are we to do?" His voice broke over his words as he mumbled.

John huffed in surprise that he hadn't thought of that yet. He was still reeling from the trauma of seeing Lewis. His stomach twisted at the thought that the boy was underneath the carriage they sat so close to now; he didn't know how to tell Thomas.

He pulled his watch out from his pocket and found the glass pane had shattered, and he could hear no ticking from inside its body.

"Give me your watch," he gestured towards the under-butler, who lifted his head to stare at him in confusion. The under-butler lazily dragged a forearm across his nose and upper lip. The action reduced the clotted blood to a pink stain against his pale skin, and his white shirt came away red. John couldn't tell if Thomas was trying to be insolent; Thomas couldn't tell if Bates was losing it.

"Your watch," the valet snapped.

John yanked at the chain showing from Thomas' vest and released the watch from its pocket. Now that Thomas was awake and giving him the eye, impatience for the other man had replaced any worry he had once felt. Instead anxiety and anger were boiling hotly.

He saw that the clock face remained intact and hoped that meant the mechanism behind it was still working reliably.

"It's four o'clock now, if this can be trusted," he paused to think, "I've no idea where along the route we are."

"S'near a town," Thomas added unhelpfully. If John hadn't known any better, he would have bet the under-butler had gotten into Downton's supply of wine.

"But which one…"

If his memory served him right, he knew Thomas was correct. The road had been well used but not neglected, and he knew they had stopped in a town around it on their journey up.

John continued, "His Lordship should have left Ludbrook's at noon, so he may be going to pass us soon."

"They should see us. We can yell." John considered how low Thomas delivered his suggestion and doubted the under-butler's ability to shout over the noise of a moving carriage.

"We're about forty feet down at a bend in the road," he shook his head, "George'll be focused on steering the horses along it instead of looking down here in search of our sorry souls."

"So we'll climb up," Thomas stated simply. John distrusted his own leg to support him up such a steep and craggy incline on his best days, but thought Thomas had a chance of climbing to the top if he was careful.

A flash of anxiety prickled inside him; he envisioned Thomas climbing to the top and making his way to town, getting help and never coming back for him, selling to everyone lies of John having died in the crash; John would rot down here with Lewis and the horses while Thomas lied to Lord Grantham. And to _Anna_. And they wouldn't ever know.

He shook himself physically from these flights of the imagination and he dismissed it as simple hysteria; Thomas owed him too much to abandon him to his death. Begrudgingly, he admitted that Thomas was not built _that_ cruel.

Thomas took to the slow and arduous task of getting to his unsteady feet. He wavered as his vision eclipsed and his ears rang, and he crashed to his knees. The resounding thud had John wince in sympathy.

Thomas swallowed thickly before he felt his stomach churn violently and he was vomitting on the ground before him. His stomach clenched and his throat burned as tears streaked down his cheeks. With each heave, the dizzying pressure in his head grew, and he had to throw out both hands and dig into the mud to keep himself upright as he continued to regurgitate what felt like everything he had ever eaten in his life.

Unsure of what to do, John tried not to watch him fight against another gag. He looked towards the trees as he heard Thomas continue to retch, and his stomach twisted in disgusted sympathy.

John turned back just in time to see the under-butler sway, and he managed to reach Thomas before he collapsed forward into his own sick. With a grunt he laid the younger man on his side a short distance away from the mess.

Thomas' dark eyelashes fluttered against ashen skin that remained unmarred by blood. He looked even paler than he did moments ago. The breathy pants escaping him made John begin to fret anew.

"Thomas?"

The other man tilted his head to the side away from Mr. Bates and groaned, "Jus'let m'hafa bitta lie in."

John, unsure of the exact words, understood their sentiment and took pity on Thomas. He let him lay there in peace; there was nothing he could do anyways.

In the meantime, a cool sweat broke across John's brow and his stomach bottomed out with worry when he confronted the facts of his situation.

He was at the bottom of ravine stuck with his wrecked leg and an unsteady, confused, and possibly gravely injured under-butler.

He had no idea where they were, and he wasn't sure if Lord Grantham had already passed them.

Lewis was dead and so were their two horses, two facts he still had to tell Thomas.

And if the watch could be depended on, they had about two hours before darkness set upon them.

John tried to clamp down on the heavy panic threatening to enshroud and drown him. He stared up through the thick covering of trees towards where he knew the road to be.

* * *

"And you are _sure_ His Lordship said that Mr. Bates and Mr. Barrow would arrive this _afternoon_?" Mr. Carson grilled Albert, who had returned safely the previous evening. It was now five, which Mr. Carson had taken to mean evening for his entire life.

He nodded, "Yes, sir. They were to leave the manor at eight this morning. Lord Grantham said he wanted Mr. Bates ready to receive him when they returned before dinner, sir.

"Perhaps they were delayed by the rain, sir. The horses appreciate the weather about as much as we do," he shrugged. His two horses were safe from the rains under the roofs of Downton's stables.

Carson merely arched a bushy eyebrow in response and dismissed the coachman from his office.

When Mrs. Hughes walked by a moment later, she noticed the uneasy look of the butler.

"Whatever is the matter, Mr. Carson?" She asked as she entered the room.

"Mr. Bates and Mr. Barrow were due to arrive back here this afternoon," he said with a sigh, "and as you can see, neither is present."

The house-keeper raised her eyebrows, "You don't suppose anything has happened, have you?"

"I fear I may just be overreacting," His tone said otherwise. "Albert said the rain may have delayed them."

"If a horse stopped its trot every time it rained in England, I daresay it wouldn't be the nation it is today," Mrs. Hughes replied sceptically, "But who knows, any number of things could have postponed their trip. Should we expect His Lordship to be late as well?"

Carson leaned further into his chair in thought, "Until we hear of word stating otherwise, we are to assume that he will be on schedule.

"Perhaps they chose to ride together after all," he suggested as he stood.

Mrs. Hughes twitched her lips in a small smile, "It would be grand if we were to be so fickle."

The butler said nothing in response but humoured her comment. Neither were pacified as they left for their duties.


	4. Desperate Times

Darkness had fully descended upon the ravine, and Mr. Bates had by then moved to sit against the underbelly of the carriage in search of some comfort. It – unsurprisingly – offered very little in that regard; however, it allowed the valet to rest his back on something that was not soaked through.

Before, while the sun still broke through the leaves, he had attempted to light a fire in preparation of the inky night that surrounded them now. The underbrush had been too damp to yield a flame, even with the help of Thomas' lighter, and so the two men sat in shadow.

Thomas continued to lay on the ground where John had deposited him earlier. The valet had been able to rouse him before the sun had set, and to John's relief, the under-butler had been the most coherent yet; although he was sluggish with pain.

Thomas felt as though his skull was splitting under a pressure that pounded in time to each beat of his heart. He worried vaguely about tearing brain matter and ruptured blood vessels at each stab but could not be bothered enough to panic. His stomach joined his head in protest and threatened an occasional revolt, and he fantasised about chugging glasses of clear, cool water when his belly was not twisted. These conditions gave him little reason to move from his spot; instead he had curled onto his side and spoke very little.

His silence surprised John, who had expected the under-butler to whinge loudly as soon as he was aware enough again to do so, but aside from the occasional hiss, Thomas remained quiet. The thought necessary to form words and the effort to expel them were tantamount to climbing the Himalayas.

A mute under-butler hadn't any solutions to offer, and John had mimicked the other's silence. Not that he had expected to entertain a great conversation. At the best of times the two rarely spoke beyond necessity. In such a stressful situation, John had no words to offer, but he felt childish and alone because of it.

He was mostly embarrassed that he had not thought of anything to help them since experiencing the setback with the fire. He had not expected much from Thomas, when he considered the under-butler's earlier behaviour, but the valet had no such excuse. He clamped down on a giggle when he thought how even the under-butler's best laid-plans at the height of health were questionably unreliable. A look towards Thomas proved he hadn't noticed anything.

The rain had let up slightly, and occasionally the light of the moon would shine through the clouds and the tree tops. In those moments, he could see the glint of the under-butler's eyes staring listlessly ahead.

So they were both feeling pathetic, John mused. His stomach grumbled in protest when he realised the servants supper would have by now concluded. He hit the back of his head against the carriage and tried to convince himself he was with Anna, protected by the warmth of her arms.

* * *

"What do you mean ' _they never arrived_ '?" Robert demanded hotly.

"I mean precisely that, my Lord; they never arrived at Downton," Carson explained, slightly flustered under the earl's hard stare.

Robert frowned deeply. Branson and his carriage pulled up at the front of Downton on schedule, and they were confused to be greeted by only Carson and the two footmen.

"But they left Ludbrook's before we did," The earl clarified, as if no one else was aware of the fact.

"I'm not sure what to say, my Lord, but they are not here."

Alfred and Jimmy shared a look of puzzlement as they unloaded the carriage.

"Maybe something put them off course," Branson offered, "It had started to storm quite badly just before we left."

With a roll of his eyes that made the Irishman think of Mary, Robert countered, "Surely we would have encountered the same hindrance if it were something akin to a flood or a felled tree."

He shook his head, "No, that can't be it."

"Shall his Lordship come inside and speak of this out of the rain?" Mr. Carson suggested as he gestured towards the door.

"Not if we're to look for them," Robert exclaimed, "Something must have happened, Carson! They had not stopped in Nidderdale, nor anywhere else along the roads we had used on the way there. We need to round a search party."

At the butler's alarmed look, Branson interrupted, "Even if we could get a search party together this instant, it would still be the middle of the night when we left – and before dawn if we rode back to the manor. We could easily miss something in the dark, God forbid."

The earl considered his son-in-law's words before he nodded, "You're right, Tom. We'll have to organise a strategy for our search to begin first thing tomorrow."

Robert began to stride towards his home.

"Ah – My Lord, what about dinner?" Carson asked.

"We'll dine as usual, but we'll use that time to think up a plan. It will be rather unorthodox, but we cannot afford to waste any time. I suppose you'll have to dress me, Carson, if that's all right," he looked towards Tom, "We can inform the ladies of this news then."

* * *

After the family's dinner service, Anna had not waited long in Mary's room before she returned to undress.

"My dear Anna," Mary said as she glided towards the maid, "I've just heard the news."

Anna merely nodded with her mouth in a twisted grimace. She had been expecting her husband in the afternoon and had spent her time since then worrying. And now that word of a search party was to be conducted had reached the downstairs, her fears were given credence. As such, she didn't think she could trust her voice at that moment.

"How are you fairing?"

"I'm sorry m'lady," Anna averted her watery eyes, "My mind's running circles thinking the worst. It's just that - I wouldn't know what I were to do without Mr. Bates."

"Oh, Anna," Mary said as she clasped the lady's maid's hands, "please don't let me think my pessimism has spoiled you so."

Anna kept her eyes towards the ground as Mary continued, "You cannot be sure that you are without him just yet. Papa means to find him when they set out tomorrow."

"Find him where though?" Anna questioned finally meeting the lady's eyes, "Where could they have possibly disappeared to?"

Mary remained silent as she consoled the other woman, as she was without words to offer. Her own throat was tight with sadness. After Matthew was ripped from her life, she had stopped expecting logic or fairness to govern the world.

After a loaded pause she gathered herself and tried to add in jest, "One never knows; maybe Thomas convinced them all to take a detour to York until the evening."

She hoped for Anna's sake that she was correct.


	5. Alarm and Strategy

John snapped awake the next morning dismayed to find that the previous day hadn't been a horrendous nightmare. He was wet and dirty and still propped up against that damned carriage.

He had spent the majority of the night wide awake and jumping at each twig that snapped and each leaf that rustled. He could hear sinister, wet tearing sounds coming from the area of the horses; John assumed some animal had finally found the carcasses, and it was equal parts disgust and fear that had alighted his nerves and hade made sleep unattainable. Luckily, whatever animal that had found its supper, was never brave enough to venture close to either man while John was awake.

His eyes and head felt fuzzy and his stomach cramped with hunger. When he finished rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked over towards the under-butler.

His heart skipped several beats when he could not find Thomas. The man had barely moved from his spot on the ground all the while John had stayed awake that night. John had actually felt a pang of jealousy at the under-butler's ability to find sleep, while he had shivered listening to a beast (or more) loudly masticate the tissues ripped from the horses.

Now, in a flight of panic, John had thought Thomas had left him to find the road and wound up lost somewhere out there.

Struggling to his feet, John groaned at the pressure it added to his throbbing ribs. Each breath ignited a flare of burning pain up his right side. He clutched at the carriage while he caught his breath and waited for his vision to clear.

"Thomas!" he shouted.

He strained for a moment in case of a reply but heard nothing echoing in the ravine. A cursory glance at the woods around him proved fruitless, so he began to limp around the carriage, fastiduously _not_ looking at the horses.

Relief flooded over him when he saw the under-butler crouched over Lewis.

"Thomas?" He called quietly.

"Where have you been?" The other man snapped over his shoulder. "We need to get this carriage off of him and stabilise him properly before getting him back to RAP[1]," His hands clamped Lewis' head in a fixed position.

John grew confused. Despite it being the longest sentence the under-butler had said to him in over twenty-four hours, it made absolutely no sense.

Thomas continued haltingly with desperation colouring his voice, "I can't find my haversack… any… my helmet – the mud, where– where is everyone?"

Thomas knew he had left the trenches fully stocked and properly outfitted. To not do so would be suicide. Thomas didn't want to die, and yet here he was without his equipment – without his team. Why would he go out alone and leave something like his helmet behind? And why would he be wearing a vest and his best shoes? Surely, he had worn the same mud starched uniform for years, never having packed his vest from Downton. Or was it the other way around? It was just that his brain hurt; a fissure had erupted between the last memory of combat and where he was now. He was certain he didn't belong here – was the war over? – yet there was a soldier who needed help; he was expected to help him; his hands were covered in blood and mud.

"Thomas? What are you talking about?"

John crept closer to the other man until he could see his face. It was creased with alarm but his eyes were oddly distant, wide-eyed and blank.

Thomas flinched bodily and made to cover the body with his own. He heard the whistling of shrapnel – always shrapnel – why wasn't this private ducking with him?

He let out a strangled, "We need to fall back _now_! Where's the stretcher?"

John's stomach twisted painfully and his heart pounded as his body was flooded with adrenaline, his sore ribs and laboured breaths forgotten. The other man's fright was palpable and infectious. John watched Thomas' disturbing behaviour in horror; his mind worked vainly to comprehend what was happening.

John spoke low and deliberately, "Thomas – Lewis is dead. There is no stretcher. We're not… _taking_ him anywhere." They would only be taking him back to Downton so his parents could bury him, and that was only _if_ they were lucky enough to be found. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier."

Thomas' gaze was fixed on the coachman's body. John hadn't realised how badly the other man was shaking until then. It was a wonder the under-butler was able to keep upright on his own.

"Then we'll… have to bury 'm – 'ere. The rats…" Thomas released the boy's neck and crouched into an even smaller squat than John thought possible.

Thomas remembered the times when he was forced to scour No Man's Land for bodies. His clothes were wet like they were now, and the smell of mud and blood was everywhere – to the point that Thomas thought that he had absorbed it through his own skin and adopted it as a musk to carry around as a memento of everything that he saw and everyone that he lost.

The unfortunate men who had died out there were left half submerged in mire, and yet he knew twice as many were already consumed and buried in the mud, hidden while they decomposed so that Thomas could thrust his hand into their torso or so that he could grasp their heads still covered in hair when he lost his footing or had sunk waist deep.

He had lost his footing a lot.

He couldn't help but resent these men when he was sent to find them; men whose presence out in God foresaken plains forced Thomas to risk his own life just to collect them and make sure their mums were informed when and where their sons had died when his own mum was dead and would never know of or comfort him for the atrosities he had witnessed. At his touch, these bodies would release rancid pus and rats fattened on flesh, leaving behind ravanged bodies and bones stripped bare. It was here that Thomas learned that death was not romantic but truly horrific. It was a glutton that discriminated against no man; it just needed to feed, feed, feed, as long as it could leave destruction in its wake; and they were all so eager to offer themselves, with him among the bleating goats at sacrifice, when he risked being swallowed whole by the earth and entombed in its wet sludge.

He would not leave this last soldier as a meal for rats.

"No – no," John shook his head to himself before raising his voice, "Thomas! There are no rats. Whatever you're seeing – isn't real."

John berated himself, for he had a feeling that what he said was false. Whatever Thomas was seeing had been real at one time.

"Thomas. Do you know where you are? The carriage crashed. You and I are here," he gestured at their surroundings.

The under-butler grimaced and shook his head, "Wha—"

Mr. Bates didn't belong in these mud-flung bullshit landscapes. He belonged to a group of men who still praised the calvary and sweated out in the hot sands of Africa instead of freezing miserably in the muck of France. He belonged in the clean and precise halls of Downton. He belonged in the arms of his sweet wife and living a life that would forever be out of reach for Thomas.

"You're here. With me, Mr. Bates. Not in the grips of some…" Bates grimaced and trailed off, unsure of what to call whatever Thomas was experiencing.

Thomas looked at his bloody hands and moaned miserably.

"But I… Oh. Oh."

Of course, the war had ended years ago. He was free from its clutches; he was a boy who pretended to be a man who returned unchanged to a hateful job that never involved mud or blood or death, and he never spoke of or even remembered what he saw or the terror that he felt. Like how a man's insides were sadistically and pleasantly warm against his frozen hands in the middle of winter; or how grown men cried for their mothers until they were hoarse or unconciouse or both; or how he and his team killed more men than nought just by carrying them on their stretchers.

He continued to look at this hands and John couldn't see his face.

"That's it—" John clasped the under-butler's shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" Thomas screeched and fell back. Large, wet pants escaped from the under-butler who blinked rapidly against a flood of tears – furious at himself, at the world.

"Don't you ever bloody touch me," He growled as he clumsily got to his feet and lurched away from the body.

John merely gaped at the other man at a loss for what to do.

* * *

By dawn, Robert had rounded up all of his male staff that could be excused from their duties. The earl's anxieties had festered over the course of the night, so most of his servants were spared and their tasks abandoned. They stood at attention in front of Downton in the early morning light with the mists of evaporating dew obscuring the horizon. Luckily the rain had all but abated, and the pink-tinged clouds only occasionally leaked a light shower. Outside staff stood next to house staff, and even a few villagers had been roused to help; strangers mingled with one another. A few of the female staff, including Mrs. Hughes and Anna, had joined the collection, though they were not to help with the search efforts.

Any of the staff who could ride had been outfitted with their own horse from the Downton stables, and those villagers who could, brought their own. Some of the coachmen and grooms had attached to their harnesses wagons to allow the non-riders to join and aid in the search.

Robert had sent his chauffeur ahead in the car to alert Mr. Rhodes of their crisis to enlist his help. He had sent a request to recruit any well wishing townsfolk to begin a search near Ludbrook's manor. He had also sent the chauffeur to extend an appeal for aid from the Duke of Devonshire[2] to see if he could afford anyone to join in their manhunt.

Robert struck a worried but determined figure before the mass of man that had congregated.

"Alright, everyone," his voice carried clear in the dawn, "You all know the roads we took and which they should have travelled yesterday. There are plenty of towns and small hamlets along the way and these need to be searched as thoroughly as the countryside. Leave no stone unturned and no person unasked."

The man stared in rapt attention.

"Remember the parties you have been assigned and do not stray from them. We don't want to begin a search for another missing man."

During dinner and well after its conclusion, Robert and Branson had planned their strategy for searching such a large expanse of land. They had decided that breaking the searchers into smaller, staggered groups would be best. Each band had been assigned particular parts of the route to investigate and any of the nearby towns to explore. Some of the more gifted riders were directed to search the unusual and treacherous roads off the agreed upon route in case Lewis had used them as a desperate alternative.

They were all instructed to arrive at Ludbrook's manor by sunset, where they would reassemble with any other additional volunteers and plan the second day's sweep in returning to Downton. Robert and Branson would ride at the front in hopes of reaching Mr. Rhodes and his men first.

"Keep your eyes open for our three men or any carriage bearing the Grantham crest. Swiftness is our ally but do not let your haste cause you to miss anything," he looked out to the men, "And please – be careful. Let's get going."

The crowd broke into a flurry of motion as the men saddled up. Jimmy and Alfred joined two hallboys in a wagon and their coachman set off down the lane.

Robert turned to his butler, "Please, ensure that the ladies don't worry too much, Carson. I fear we've had enough strife to last us."

Carson nodded. He was to be the few male servants remaining at Downton and would look after the others.

"And Anna," he turned to the lady's maid, "don't fret. We will bring back Mr. Bates safe and sound. In the meantime, do take Mary's advice as my own and have a respite; she does not need you on this day."

Anna smiled wearily, "Thank you, Lord Grantham, but if it's the same to you, it might be best if I were to work and keep my mind off it all."

She had spent the night agonising over her husband, feeling his absence in the cottage. Anna didn't think she could manage being alone with her own thoughts for too long.

"Just promise me you'll bring him back."

Robert nodded and pledged his word, trying not to allow his heart to feel heavy.

He saddled his horse and Branson joined the others in their exodus from Downton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geeky notes / Canadian Heritage Minute:
> 
> [1] RAP stands for Regimental Aid Post, which was a facility near the front line that carried out first aid. It was attended by the Medical Officer, his orderlies, and the stretcher bearers. The wounded, once treated, would be either sent back to battle or to an Advance Dressing Station if/when time allowed. [On another note - I was thinking this part of Thomas' history would make for an interesting story / the research necessary would be neat. Would anyone be interested?]
> 
> [2] The Duke of Devonshire owned Bolton Abbey; The duke at this time, the 9th Duke of Devonshire (named Vincent Cavendish), was also Canada's 11th Governor General. He had been appointed by the British Prime Minister and not, as custom had proceeded, by the Canadian Prime Minister. He ended up being a pretty cool dude though and held his term through two prime ministers (Borden and Meighen) over 5 years.
> 
> During his term, he was involved in conscription and all the shit that involved the Conscription Crisis between the French and English (not so cool), the suffrage movement, the Winnipeg General Strike, and the Halifax explosion. He was also an integral supporter of Canadian agriculture and developed a few experimental farms, including Ottawa's Central Experimental Farm, which was neat for me to learn because I drove past that farm a few times when I lived in the capital!
> 
> He also apparently hosted tobogganing, skating, and hockey parties at his residence, so not a bad guy all 'round. I wish there were pictures of the games!
> 
> After his term, he worked with the League of Nations.


	6. The Snake and the Crab

John considered himself a man who was sensible, even-tempered, and genial even during the most trying times. Though he did not always see the best in people or events, he made a concerted effort to give both the benefit of the doubt - to allow them to prove themselves otherwise. He wanted to be an optimist (but knew better) and had a strict set of personal moral codes. He would allow fate and other people's actions dictate how he treated them, not necessarily any prejudgments he may have made about them. It was calm and orderly; he was calm and orderly. But as he sat shocked on the filthy ravine floor, he could not attest to being that man. He felt as though he was on a whirling emotional carousel that had lost control. His thoughts and emotions were twirling too wildly for him to restrain, and his typical easy-going nature was upset by the under-butler.

The other man had been unhinged, seeing and reacting to imaginary things that were illusory to Bates. And yet, his fear had been very real and contagious. John could taste it as his own as his mouth dried – feel it as his own as his stomach dropped and body prickled in a cold sweat. Thomas radiated genuine fright that stunned the valet, halted his thoughts, and increased his already rapid heartbeat.

Seeing Thomas shivering, bloodied, and wide-eyed was incomprehensible. John had only once seen the man in the grips of anything beyond bland indifference or smug cruelty, and now he had intruded on to something deeply intimate. The valet felt oddly shameful; he had witnessed the effects of a private hell that the under-butler had never revealed before. It disturbed John for having seen it and for knowing that Thomas had once lived it as reality. He was angry for taking part.

He was also guilty for having been a part of it even if only as witness and felt cowed by Thomas' aggressive outburst. John, who was immensely private himself, had no right to have been present for the other man's unravelling. Thoughts like these turned to resentment for being in the ravine in the first place, which in turn incited his anger ten fold.

But perversely, the anger stirred and roiled within him and soon turned inexplicably towards himself and Thomas. Why should he feel guilt and shame, when all he had done was to offer help? It was Thomas who was too arrogant and stubborn to accept his aid. The valet shook his head and wondered why he was at all surprised, as pride and inflexibility were heralding traits of the under-butler. John felt used playing the concerned, straight man to Thomas' mad and unappreciative person.

A look towards the man showed that he was still curled up on the ground, for he had collapsed almost as soon as he had staggered away from the body. He was still shivering uncontrollably. The sound of his teeth chattering made John cringe and set his nerves on further edge. The valet himself was chilled from being out in the damp wilderness for so long, but he had not begun to shake as violently. He realised it was because Thomas was still only in his sodden shirt and vest, while John was fully clothed and had at least two stone on the other man.

"Where is your jacket, Thomas?" John felt old beyond his years.

Thomas replied in a clipped voice that seemed too quiet for the under-butler, "I don't know."

Thomas was resolute in avoiding John's gaze, and he was trying to fold in upon himself in hopes of the ground swallowing him whole. As the anger, fear, and shame he felt battled for attention, his skin felt stretched too tight and his body too small; in fact, everything was _too_ much – he was too hot, too cold, too weak, too slow. He was trapped, and he felt the valet's eyes boring into him, piercing him where he lay with equal parts curiosity, disgust, and pity. He did not need anyone's pity and he had his fair share of other people's disgust. He wanted as little to do with the valet as possible.

Mr. Bates stared hard at the other man for a moment before he mentally retraced their steps since having left the manor. He remembered from before the crash that Thomas had taken his suit jacket off. It felt as though a million years had past since then.

He informed Thomas, who looked at the vehicle for a time before scoffing.

"Might as well be on the moon."

Between his raging headache and his gnawing hunger, Thomas could barely think straight and was proud that he even managed to respond. His vision had started to undulate in curious ways that was distracting and unpleasant. The world felt like it had started spinning faster and in the wrong direction, and it was all Thomas could do to hang. There was no way he would be able to scale the mountain of a carriage.

John was inclined to agree; his battered ribs were screaming to let their presence known at the slightest movement. To lift his arms above his head was to encourage a breath-taking spasm that immobilised his whole body in pain. He felt bruised and his leg continued to twinge in its usual manner. And of course, he was faint with hunger. He could not make the climb and lift himself into the carriage, if he ever wanted to get back out again.

"You can take my jacket."

Finally Thomas looked at the valet, and the glare levelled at the man implied that he would rather die than take the other man's jacket.

"Or you can freeze to death. See if I care."

"So why don't you just lay there feeling sorry for yourself. Once again, Thomas is steamrolled by life; it's a wonder you've survived this long.

The under-butler propped himself on an arm and directed a fierce glower at John.

"I don't know what you mean. And what do you know, with your perfect life?"

John wanted to laugh. "I've had to fight for this life." Anger coursed through John when he thought back to those trying times before the war, when Thomas did everything within his power to get him fired. It felt as though he had been pulled back in time and was feeling the injustice and emotions anew. How young and cruel Thomas had been – still was.

Thomas stared icily and shook his head with a wince, "You don't even understand."

Both men had begun to breathe heavier and great puffs of steam escaped from their mouths.

"No, I don't," John admitted in exasperation, "and I probably never will."

John finally did laugh, "You know, you can be such an inconsiderate little prick sometimes."

Several dark emotions flitted across Thomas' face before it formed an affected expression of indifference that betrayed too much irritation and hurt to be believable. John didn't think he had ever seen the under-butler so expressive or unguarded – unintentional or not.

Thomas blinked heavily a few times. He asked sharply, "What?"

"You heard me, you clot," John's fury had reached a new height and it felt like he was tumbling down a never ending hill, unable to stop himself and gaining strength and momentum as he fell. Just looking at Thomas and the blood on his face intensified his wrath, and soon even the sight of the trees and the ruined carriage started to make his blood boil.

"You just take and take from people, but you look down your nose like you don't need anyone's charity – you judge them for even offering it." It was so obvious he needed it.

"What's this about – has Saint Bates not been properly venerated?"

John barely noticed how Thomas' heavy breaths turned shallow or how his blinking had become more laboured. Both of their voices carried loudly out within their spot amongst the trees, which served to emphasise just how quiet it was beyond them.

"Are there not enough people pr'strated at your feet lickin' y'r boots?" Thomas sneered weakly, "Where's Anna when you need 'er?" Stick the blade in and twist; make him feel it; make him hate and leave you alone, Thomas thought.

John saw white at the mention of his wife, "I think you'd know everything there is to know about licking someone's boots." If he had the energy, he would march over to the other man and do something he would likely regret.

"How dare you! I—I"

"No, you'll stop now. We ne—" The words died in John's throat as Thomas crashed to his elbow.

Thomas blinked against the black dots that were quickly obstructing his vision, but he could not fight against the dark, loud rush that overcame his body and muted all other thought and sensation. The under-butler's eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he passed out before his head met the ground with an audible thunk.

The valet sat motionless staring at the other man in shock. His anger deflated and was quickly replaced with concern.

The time it took him to scramble towards the other man was inconsequential. He dropped heavily next to Thomas who was looking dangerously pale. His dark black hair and the rusty blood now crusting on the side of his face were solid patches whose vibrant colour seemed to leech any life from his skin. His skin was almost translucent.

"Thomas?" John shook the supine man. He was utterly tired of having to call his name and wanted nothing more than to see Lord Grantham descend down from the edge.

Thomas remained disturbingly motionless, and John was worried about the severity of the knock the man had taken to his head. He shook the under-butler but again earned no response; he thanked God when he felt that Thomas was still breathing.

John flushed with shame. How had that gone so terribly wrong? He had only meant to be kind and offer his jacket – maybe get to the bottom of Thomas' delirium or talk about Lewis – ideally they would have established a plan of action. Instead he had lost control and mocked the man. He didn't think he had ever been that angry before. Even when Vera had framed him for her own murder, his rage had stayed as a tightly coiled fervour. His fury had been bottled and controlled – and he thought he had Anna and her support to thank for it.

Even Thomas being Thomas had not warranted that behaviour – especially since he was so badly unwell. John could have kicked himself for letting his anger blind him; he had not noticed or cared for Thomas' difficulties until it was too late. Hadn't he just seen the man nearly come apart at the seams with his delusions? Was he that callous?

John felt lonely with self-pity and remorse as he sat next to the unconscious under-butler.

* * *

"What do you think'll happen if we don't find any of 'em?" Alfred asked Jimmy, who sat next to him on their wagon's cushion.

They were currently riding down a path and were keeping their eyes out for any sign of their fellow servants. Across from them sat two younger boys who were the new hallboys at Downton. George and Henry were eager to be of service to Lord Grantham and ignored the footmen's conversation. Instead they searched silently for the senior staff members that they admired.

"Shut it, Alfred."

"I'm only askin'," He said, "Mr. Bates is ever so kind. And Lewis is younger than us!"

Jimmy levelled a glare at Alfred, trying to relay how little he was interested in this way of thinking. The circumstances of Mr. Bates and Thomas' absence had worried the first footman, and he couldn't help feeling sick over their search.

"I mean – where could they have gone? There's only so much road between us and there, isn't there?"

"Have you even been anywhere before, Alfred? And it doesn't matter, people go missing all the time." Jimmy held on tightly to his seat cushion when the wagon hit a particularly rocky section of the road.

"I just think it strange is all. Aren't you feelin' worried for Thomas?"

Of course he was worried; he worried about everyone, including Anna and everyone else back at Downton who would miss them if any of them could not be found. He didn't deem it necessary to respond. Alfred sat quietly staring at the horizon for a moment, and Jimmy thought he was done.

"You know, I heard from one of the stable hands that that manor's haunted. He heard it from the coachman who was there! Maybe it were ghost stealing them away."

"Now I know why I'm first footman," Jimmy cast a side-long look at his friend "You can't believe that drivel. Lord Grantham saw them leave the manor. They're obviously out there… somewhere." He hoped.

"You never know!" Alfred was indignant. "I can't help thinkin' things."

"Well keep it to yourself next time." Jimmy mumbled.

* * *

Meanwhile, further on ahead from the footmen, Robert and Branson were canvassing a small town. They were currently in the local pub and inn, speaking with its owner. Optimistically, Robert had hoped that his servants had gotten way-laid and ended up renting rooms at the inn. They had just finished describing each of their looks when the owner shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but none o' that rings any bells." A tall, solid, and bald man, he stood menacingly behind his counter.

"Perhaps only one had come in. They did not necessarily come in as a group, if you cannot think of a trio of men fitting that description visiting your establishment."

When the owner shook his head again, Robert continued, "Or perhaps they did not rent rooms and merely ordered a drink."

"I'm sorry, sirs, but there ain't any like that that came in here. Today. Yesterday. Or any time. I wish I could help, but..." he shrugged and began to wipe at the bar.

"Would you know if any of your patrons," Robert gestured to the few men sitting at tables, "had seen them – in case you were too busy?"

The owner lifted his eyebrows and offered levelly, "You're more than welcome to ask 'em, but if they came in, I saw 'em, and I'm saying I didn't see 'em."

Branson interrupted, "No, that'll be fine. Thank you. Sorry for taking up your time."

He brushed Robert's arm and directed him towards the door.

"If you see any of them, have them send word to Downton Abbey and contact Mr. Harold Rhodes. Please."

The owner merely nodded and turned away from the two men. Robert finally accepted that they would receive no more help from the owner and stepped towards the door.

"I think it might be time we move on," Branson suggested when the exited out into the street, "I think we've exhausted the people here."

Robert had taken his own advice to heart and had left no person unasked – sometimes more than once. His determination to find his men had developed into a very tedious line of questioning that had caused vexation in the more impatient – and less empathetic – townsfolk.

"I suppose you're right, Tom. It would be best to get back to the road."

They found their horses and directed them out of the town.

"I cannot break my promise to Anna, Tom. We must find them," Robert grimly looked towards the road. "I fear that this might damage Downton beyond repair if we don't return with them... It's already seen so much sorrow."

Tom looked out towards the horizon and spoke stiffly, voice taught with emotion, "Downton has its fair share of widows as it is."

Robert looked at his son-in-law and his heart plummeted in thoughts of Sybil. Memories of his youngest daughter and the ache of her absence cast a depressing shadow over their search. Silence descended upon them as they continued riding west, while Robert tried to dispel his negativity and think upon the task at hand. He had to convince himself that they were all right and only hidden around the next bend in the road.


	7. Desperate Measures

After John abandoned his attempts to rouse Thomas and after his breathing quieted, the valet was acutely aware of the preternaturally calm that had settled over the ravine. It felt and sounded like it went on forever, and John was overwhelmed with loneliness by sitting in its centre. He felt his hackles raise uncomfortably with the knowledge that he sat amongst his colleagues' strewn bodies. It was a feeling only strengthened when Bates look towards Thomas, and he had to remind himself that the bloodied and motionless under-butler was not like Lewis. Thomas was still alive and breathing.

But for how much longer, John was not willing to wager.

When Thomas had fainted, the valet frantically attempted to awaken the other man. His efforts came to nought, as the under-butler stubbornly clung to unconsciousness and was impervious to any slaps, pinches, or shakes John administered. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have liked to laugh at finally giving Thomas the thrashing he often deserved.

But the circumstances were dire, and there was no laughter left in him. John believed Thomas did not have much longer if they stayed down there without any medical help. He then scoffed. Even without a head wound, Thomas would not last indefinitely down in the ravine without aid, and the same went for John. They needed help.

He needed to scale the ravine's steep incline.

If he didn't, he knew Thomas did not have a hope of surviving, and John was surely to follow him in death. And it was an inglorious death that he was sure neither of them wanted.

With a deep breath he accepted his task. Stripping himself of his jacket, he folded it up and placed it under Thomas' head.

"Try to refuse it now, you daft bugger," he muttered, as he ensured that the other man's head would not roll off of the fabric.

As an afterthought, he attempted to awaken Thomas once more.

"Thomas?" He shoved at the man's shoulder and tapped at his cheek gently, "I'm going to get help, okay?"

John was pleased to see Thomas' eyelashes flutter, but he could not catch the younger man's eyes.

"Stay still. I'll be back before you can count to one thousand." Or, more likely, before he even realised John ever left.

Thomas moaned and mumbled a worryingly incomprehensible slur, but it was at least some sort of response. He also turned his chilled head into the relative warmth of the hand that John had placed on his cheek. Bates felt encouraged and set his mouth into a determined line.

Blackness threatened his vision when he took to his feet, and it was accompanied by a shrill ringing in his ears. His whole world turned to a buzzing grey that made him weak, but he managed to stay standing. When his sight righted itself, he realised he clutched at the underbelly of the carriage so tightly that his hands were white from the pressure. His breath caught in his lungs as his ribs renewed their protests. He wanted to stop there, let his body have its way, and lay down to sleep.

With as deep a breath as he could manage, he pushed himself away from the carriage and took several painful limps towards the incline. His steps were a combination of halting lurches and wild staggering. Each footfall sent an electric shock up his leg, wrapping around his knee and igniting sharply in his hip.

By the time he reached the base of the hill, his breath came in great bursts that aggravated his ribs further.

Because of his injured leg, most of his weight sat on the other leg, and he relied on his arms to pull and drag himself up. He bent himself awkwardly, so he could reach root systems and plants for support. The way his torso twisted had him grit his teeth against the pain. He focused on clutching at roots and small trees, hauling himself upwards and hopping forward on one leg. His head throbbed with each beat of his heart.

More than once, the tree or root he grasped snapped. Before he toppled backwards completely, he managed to grab another in his pinwheeling. At worst, he would slide down the ravine a few feet. John clutched at the plants and sometimes dug his hands directly into the mud to stop his descent. These falls winded the valet and ripped at his hands and nails. He had to take several breaths to collect himself before he began to climb again.

Due to his laboured breathing, he felt it before he heard anything. Tiny vibrations travelled along the ground, through the root he had grabbed and into his hand. He marvelled at the sensation as it grew in intensity until he could feel it all throughout his body. The sound of wheels turning over gravel and the measured footsteps of horses joined powerful tremors. It was coming from somewhere along the road overhead, near the bend in the road that had caused this disaster.

Relief and joy flooded John, and he let out a shaken laugh. He was about halfway up, and in turning to look behind him, Bates could see Thomas lying amongst the underbrush.

The sound continued to grow in power, and John turned back to the top of the ravine. But he could not see the carriage or wagon that was driving close; he was too near to the ravine's wall.

He yelled up and heard his voice crack. His mouth was too dry; he could not remember the last time he drank – or ate for that matter. He tried again, but his voice sounded pathetically weak to himself and he was right there; he knew it was not carrying over the thunderous sound of the wagon.

"No, no, no no!" John muttered to himself. He began to wave his hand uselessly and shout anew.

He realised that the horses and its load were right above him, making their way around the bend. Its driver could not see him; he was too close to the ground, and he was losing his chance.

"Wait damn it!" The sound began to lessen, and he could no longer feel the vibrations through the root he clasped. "I'm here!"

John dropped his head into the leaves in despair and expelled a shaky breath. He had wasted his only chance. When would another person again travel this road? He felt desperate tears pickle at his eyes, and he felt sick to his stomach.

"Mr. Bates?"

John whipped his head upwards so hard he felt a twinge in his neck.

He blinked his eyes a few times, not trusting what he saw. It had to be a mirage of sorts. Or perhaps the last day or so had been his time served in purgatory, temporarily withheld to be punished and purified of his sins. That certainly explained Thomas' presence, but it did not account for his continued misdeeds performed whilst there; nor it did it account for why Alfred and Jimmy would be greeting him in heaven. As an irreligious man, this thought disconcerted him as much as the idea of a hell did.

"Wh—?" He could not form a coherent word.

The two footmen were looking down at him in concern.

"Wait there, Mr. Bates! We'll come down to you!" Jimmy called, while Alfred straightened and shouted something back towards the road.

John had not heard them when they approached the edge of the road. He had been absorbed in his sorrow in having missed the wagon. But when the vibration stopped and the sounds ceased, it was not because the wagon had driven too far away; it was because its coachman halted its course just past the bend in the road.

"Are you alright, Mr. Bates?" Jimmy began cautiously sliding down the side. "Alfred caught sight of your carriage down there."

Alfred began to follow Jimmy. They were both troubled and relieved to have found the valet on the steep side. They had nearly passed the section of the road by without a second look, but as they reached the bend, Alfred saw through the trees that had obscured the carriage. At the sight of the crashed vehicle, they had thought the worst.

"Mr. Bates?!" John looked a sorry state clutching to the root. His hair was tousled and covered in leaves and mud; his face and shirt fared just as poorly, streaked with dirt and sweat.

"Ye—yes! I'm alright… Thomas – " John's voice failed him. Now that someone was here, he felt drained – too weary to speak or move – and was content to lay in the muck.

Jimmy had reached John first and grabbed at his arm. Concern still coloured the young man's face as he took in the minor scrapes and bruises littering John's face.

"Oh God, I thought you left," John mumbled, speaking of the wagon. Now that Jimmy was there, physically touching him, he knew that it was real.

"Sh, it's alright, Mr. Bates. We've got you," Jimmy comforted, "We've been lookin' for you all day."

"Loads of us," Alfred added as he reached the pair. George and Henry looked over from the edge and began to climb towards them.

The four made quick work to pull and drag the older man up to the road. Despite the wet and unstable condition of the side of the ravine, they managed to deposit John on the road with only a few grunts and curses among them. It was mostly the valet who groaned loudly as he was manhandled to the road, where John sat dazed at the edge of the ravine.

"How are you feelin', Mr. Bates? Are you alright there? You look peaky," Alfred inquired.

"Thomas! You've to get him," he blinked away a lethargic feeling and reached for the footman, "He needs a doctor badly. He's by the – the carriage." John had begun to shake like a leaf.

Alfred left John to sit with the coachman, and rushed to look down the ravine.

"Jimmy! Look," he pointed downwards having spotted the unconscious under-butler.

With a curse, Jimmy joined Alfred and the hallboys on a second descent to rescue Thomas. John knew he should worry about the other man, but he was too tired to bother. The effort of keeping his eyes open was proving taxing enough.

As it was, after what felt like only a few blinks, he saw the heads of the four servants pop over the edge. With heavy grunts they had dragged Thomas' dead weight onto the road.

"Be caref'l," John slurred, worried when Thomas' neck roll and his cut turned into the dirt. Out from the brush of the ravine, the under-butler's pallor looked even worse and the blood garish.

In a haze, John quickly found himself bundled into the wagon beside the hallboys. He had watched mutely as they secured Thomas as best they could by wedging him in between Jimmy and Alfred on the opposite seat, as there was no room to lay him flat within the vehicle. His head rested loosely on Jimmy's shoulder, his body distressingly slack and pliable.

The coachman saddled up and slowly turned the wagon around. The horses strained at the added weight.

Without meaning to, John felt his eyes close and let sleep claim him.

As, he watched Mr. Bates doze, Jimmy felt nauseous. The adrenaline of finding Mr. Bates and Thomas had left him shaky and light-headed. It turned out the bad feeling from earlier had merit, and while he was not at all superstitious, he could not help but feel guilty for having those involuntary pessimistic thoughts. Inexplicably he felt that his thoughts were partly responsible for their crash, even though he knew that it happened well before he was even aware of their absence.

The sight Mr. Bates wild-eyed and dirtied on the ravine wall was distressing, but the man seemed to be well enough all things considered. Even with his eyes closed and body slack in sleep, he looked far and aways better than the under-butler. He had not been sure if the man was alive at all as he slid down the side, and he was shocked at the fear and sadness he felt in those moments before he saw the rise and fall of the under-butler's chest. Thomas' continued unresponsiveness worried Jimmy, and he urged the wagon to move faster.

He clutched at the under-butler to keep him steady, just as Alfred did the same.


	8. Out of the Frying Pan

John woke to Doctor Clarkson shaking his shoulder.

He blinked dazedly at the man before memories of the past few days flooded back.

He realised he must have slept for the entire trip back because his last memory consisted of being saved by the footmen. And now, the wagon had stopped in front of the doctor's practice, and the man himself was standing beside the vehicle in question with a team of nurses.

"Mr. Bates, do you think you can manage the steps alone?" he gestured towards the wagon steps.

Though they looked far worse than any set of steps had the business of being, now that John was out of that ravine, he felt he could do anything. He nodded at the doctor, but something must have showed on his face.

"Very well. Nurse Blackburn," Richard gestured to the nurse beside him, "please assist Mr. Bates down. And you," he pointed at the rest of the wagon's occupants, "I'm going to ask you to be extremely careful with Mr. Barrow."

John snapped his attention towards Thomas as he exited the wagon. In the haze of sleep, he had forgotten about the other man. In between Jimmy and Alfred, Thomas resembled a corpse, and his pallor made Alfred look like a tanned Adonis.

"You mustn't jostle him too much," Richard had already directed his attention wholly on the others, "Go slowly and one of you support his head and neck. It's imperative that you keep him steady."

Dr. Clarkson turned back to John and spoke calmly, "The others briefly spoke of finding you conscious and moving? For this reason I'll tend to Thomas first, but tell me, is there anything ailing you now that would change my mind?"

Bates shook his head. While he never claimed to be a doctor, he knew enough to assume his battered ribs could wait another hour or more. Thomas, on the other hand, may not be able to afford another minute. And John had not risked tumbling down the ravine wall for a lark; it was because he had been genuinely afraid for the under-butler. He still was.

His answer satisfied the doctor.

"Then follow Nurse Blackburn inside; I'll see to you when I am able."

Richard turned back towards the wagon and assessed their clumsy progress.

"Gentleman! This man is not a sack of potatoes. Please don't heft him as if he were…"

John limped slowly towards the building, leaving behind the others and the sounds of Dr. Clarkson barking orders. He was embarrassed to admit needing the help of the nurse, but she made no mention when he began to lean heavily against her smaller frame.

She led him into a large, rectangular room with beds covered in crisp, white linens lining the longer walls. All were empty save for one at the far end, which was filled by a sleeping man who did not stir at their entrance. Nurse Blackburn gestured to a bed in the middle of the room.

"Sit here, Mr. Bates. I'll be right back with a pair of dry trousers for you."

John cast a look around the room. It may have been practically empty, but he was not accustomed to stripping in such publicly open areas. Tonight, he must have been transparent because the nurse elaborated with a slight smile.

"I'll draw a partition when I return with fresh clothing."

The valet sat gingerly onto the bed as she left, and he wrapped an arm around his torso to cradle his aching ribs. He felt like he was sleepwalking through a dream and that when he awoke, he would be still in that sodden ravine with a dying under-butler.

He could hear the doctor and his make-shift orderlies before he heard them.

"Carefully. Easy! Good, now place him here."

Dr. Clarkson had entered the room and stopped at the bed across from Bates on the other side of the wall. Behind him, the four young men held Thomas aloft. Jimmy's face was contorted with concentration as he supported his shoulders and neck tightly, obviously taking heed of the doctor's earlier directions. They placed the under-butler atop the linens and sighed at the release of their charge. They continued to stand around the bed awkwardly as Dr. Clarkson and two nurses began to position Thomas properly on the bed.

"Yes, thank you, gentlemen. You may go now," the doctor suggested with a pointed look.

A nurse began to erect a partition around the bed as the servants left. Alfred and Jimmy attempted to ask after the valet, but Bates was focused on the activities behind the divider. The curtain was large and opaque enough to obscure their movements, but it did nothing to muffle their voices as they worked. John couldn't understand most of the words used, but he did recognise the urgency behind them.

When Nurse Blackburn returned, the footmen took it as their cue to leave. Bates continued to eavesdrop as he slowly changed painfully into a pair of cotton, pyjama-like outfit. John felt like a new man when he peeled his sodden and soiled clothing from his chilled skin. His skin was still cool to the touch, but he had begun to relax into the warmth of the building.

For the second time that evening, John was roused by the doctor from a sleep he hadn't realised he fell into.

"How's Thomas?"

"You needn't worry about that right now, Mr. Bates," Richard answered vaguely, "He's been attended to, but now I've to examine you."

John took solace in that Dr. Clarkson did not look overly flustered after treating the under-butler. He was pliable under the doctor's assessment and was honest when asked any questions.

"Are you feeling any pain?"

"My ribs – on the right side." John stiffly lifted his arm and brandished his right flank.

When Richard palpated the area, Bates couldn't contain the pained cry that escaped his lips.

"Ah," the doctor ceased pressing his fingers against his sides, "a little tender there. Please remove your shirt, Mr. Bates."

John mused internally that he should have never put it on the first place and began to struggle slowly out of the top. As the doctor collected his stethoscope, Nurse Blackburn returned to assist the valet disrobe.

"So you're feeling localised pain here," his fingers ghosted over the patch of skin, "There's quite a large bruise. I'm sorry but I'll have to press."

Richard began to needling at John's ribs in a way that had him holding his breath. When the doctor listened to his breathing, John inhalations were shallow and quick.

"I don't feel a fracture; I believe they're merely bruised. What I can do is to wrap bandages around your ribs to secure them, which will make it easier to breathe, but it's important that you breathe as deeply as often as you can."

The process of wrapping his ribs was easier said than done and an experience that John never wanted to live through again. As Doctor Clarkson wound the fabric around his torso, John felt as though his ribs were collapsing. He bit down viciously on his lips throughout it all, but he was unable to silence all of his grunts. Once it was over, however, John was pleased to notice his chest did feel better, and the fiery pain had dulled to an overall ache. The fabric restricted his chest in an alien way, but their heavy presence added a sense of stability.

Of course, the pain relievers the doctor had administered were helping everything along.

"Bates!" He turned and saw Lord Grantham hurry towards him.

"Oh, how it is good to see you again." The earl took in his valet's bandaged chest.

"How is he, Doctor? Not too gravely hurt?"

Dr. Clarkson shook his head, "No, but he has severely bruised his ribs, which isn't anything to laugh at. I'd like to keep him for a day or two for observation."

"Of course! For however long you deem necessary. Bates, I want you to heal fully and properly before you return."

"And we'll discuss the… _particulars_ when you have finished here," the doctor said with an eye towards Thomas' bed before he left the earl.

"Believe me when I say that I am ever so glad to have you back safe!" Robert exclaimed, "The whole of Downton had been worried sick. But how are you fairing, old boy?"

"Better, now that I'm here," Bates affirmed with a smile.

He relaxed into his bed, propped up against several pillows – a far cry from the hard carriage. He was warm, buzzing from the doctor's medication, and in the company of a good man. Some of the tension he had been carrying for the past two days had started to ease. Against his wishes, his eyelids began to shut on their own accord.

"I see that you're tired, Bates, so I'll take my leave. Just rest and devote yourself to getting better." Robert clasped the valet's shoulder gently before he left and made way for the doctor. John was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

* * *

John felt two hands grasping his as he was pulled from his slumber. A chaste kiss was planted near his hairline, and he opened his eyes to see Anna staring down at him.

"I'm sorry. I know you were sleeping, but I had to touch you myself to make sure this was real," she whispered with a smile.

He brought her hands to his mouth to kiss them.

"I could say the same." With Anna sitting beside him, he could finally set the nightmare of the past two days aside for what they were. He was actually here, alive, with his wife.

"I was worried sick over you. I don't think I've ever worried so much." Tears had begun to well in her eyes as the emotional toll of the day affected her.

"Don't cry, my love. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It doesn't matter now. What matters is that you're here with me and safe." She smiled. "How are you feeling?"

John smiled as he realised that was a question that he would have to get used to hearing over the next few days.

"I'm fine. I've only bruised my ribs," he said as he took a deep breath with Dr. Clarkson's suggestion in mind. His face darkened as he looked across the way towards Thomas' bed

"It could have been worse."

His wife followed his gaze. "I'm glad it wasn't the other way around, and I'm not sorry to say it. You're all I have in this world, Mr. Bates."

His features softened as he looked back at Anna.

"And you're all I have."

Despite the grounding Anna provided him, internally he felt in flux. But he didn't understand the anxiety that still bubbled in his chest. He had hoped for this very scenario while stranded, yet he could not help but feel guilt whenever he looked at Thomas.


	9. Unknown Prognosis

Robert left John to find Dr. Clarkson. The doctor led him towards the under-butler, and the earl now stood over Thomas and assessed his supine body. A bandage was wound around his head and obscured most of his forehead, but Robert could see the appearance of a bruise at its lowest edge. The bandage was curled around Thomas' head in a way that sprung his raven hair in an unruly shock that the under-butler would have never allowed had he been awake. Dark rings circled the unconscious man's eyes, and his skin was almost the shade of the linens draped over him. Scrapes and scars littered his face and forearms and served as the only presence of colour on the under-butler.

"Dear God, man. What happened?"

"Thomas has sustained a substantial head wound in the crash," Richard pointed at the left side of the under-butler's forehead hidden by the dressing, "The blow actually fractured the skull and created a gash along his hairline as well as some considerable bruising."

The earl grimaced as he craned over of the wounded man.

"I know the words 'skull fracture' sound worrying, but Thomas was relatively lucky: it was a linear fracture that was quite small. It definitely could have been worse – the skull didn't depress or fracture inwards."

Robert looked queasy, but Richard continued.

"My worry lies in the broken skin surrounding the fracture, as it can be a breeding ground for bacteria, and it was quite dirty when he first arrived. We've cleaned the wound as best as we could, and I've started a round of antibiotics in anticipation of any infection, but we'll have to watch for fever."

"So he's going to be fine then?"

"Head wounds are finicky things, and the human brain is a complicated and complex organ. Each head injury – each man for that matter – can beget different outcomes. I just don't want to give you false hope."

At Robert's concerned look, the doctor continued, "All things considered, Thomas has looked promising so far: his breathing is regular and his heart is strong; he's responded to pain stimuli and his pupils reacted evenly to light."

Richard paused to draw in a breath.

"However, Thomas didn't respond to any of our questions or instructions. He remained unconscious throughout my examination. I must keep him under observation to ensure he hasn't suffered any severe brain damage."

The earl gasped. He knew the under-butler looked ghastly lying there on the bed, but he couldn't imagine Thomas waking up permanently damaged or different in anyway.

"We'll only know this if and when Thomas wakes up, and then we can assess how easily he can communicate and follow commands. Until then… I can't answer your question."

Robert nodded his head weakly, "Yes, yes, of course. I—this is most unfortunate news."

The doctor offered his apologies, "We'll just have to wait and see."

"Thank you, Doctor Clarkson. I expect it was due your expertise that we have him to this point as it is. We'll just have to pray for good fortune."

Robert gazed at Thomas a moment longer and remarked at how young and small he looked. The search for both men was exactly that – a search for _both_ of them; however, Robert was self-aware enough to recognise that his main concern had been finding Bates. It was his valet – a man he had known for decades through good and bad – that went missing. It wasn't that he had worried any less for Thomas, but Bates was always at the forefront of his mind. Now that he saw the under-butler laid out and damaged before him, he felt guilty for having done so. The earl found his stillness disquieting, and after only a moment, Robert turned away to return to Downton.


	10. Into the Fire

As John stood next to the overturned carriage, he knew something was on the other side. Whatever it was drew all the energy from the ravine to its position. Its pull was so strong it felt as though the wilderness was collapsing on itself to reach it; however, everything was still. Only John could not resist its pull and with horror began to take small steps towards the opposite side.

A brief look outwards revealed the woods was ensconced in a dense smog, so thick John could barely see the closest set of bushes and trees around him. The carriage was a beacon in this ominous haze and something John clutched at for security.

He strained vainly against his own body; he could not let himself reach the other side, for wet and juicy sounds of tearing flesh were now issuing from beyond the protection of the vehicle. Yet he continued to slowly creep around the carriage, taking slow and unencumbered steps. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose the closer he reached his destination, and the fact that his leg swung and bore his weight perfectly as it did when he was a young man was ignored for the bubbling dread building in the pit of his stomach. With each step, the sounds of mutilation grew louder.

There was something there making those sounds. And it was waiting for him.

He finally reached the edge of the carriage, and as if pulled by an invisible tether, he turned the corner. What he saw paralysed him with fear.

Hunched over the bodies of the dead horses, a dark figure tore into their opened bellies and brought red, seeping entrails to its mouth. It chewed messily on the flesh, masticating the guts loudly between its teeth. John gagged at the sight.

The figure jerked its bloodied head up at the sound, mouth dripping with viscera, and two crystalline blue eyes pierced John to his very soul.

John awoke with a shout.

Sun filtered through the glass of the windows and illuminated the room in a warm glow. John could faintly hear birds chirping gaily outside. He was still propped up against several pillows in the same position that he fell asleep. With a measured breath, he attempted to regain control over his rapidly beating heart.

Violent images of Thomas had plagued the valet's dreams throughout the night. The last one that had violently roused him from slumber had been the worst of them. The others had been different, but they always featured the ravine and Thomas in some way. Scenes of the under-butler bloodied and hurt, demanding something of Bates he could not offer were more common. One particularly disturbing nightmare had John battling against legions of rats intent on attacking Thomas, who was pinned and screeching underneath the carriage. Bates shuddered at the memory.

The constant jolts waking him from these nightmares left John incredibly tired in the morning's sunlight. He relaxed against his pillows but did not close his eyes. As much as he craved sleep, the valet's nerves could not handle one more terrifying vision.

Slowly, his eyes made their way to the still figure lying in the bed across from him. Thomas had been cleaned since he last saw him, but he still looked pale and bruised. John felt queasy as the bloodied images of his nightmares flickered across his mind, and he tore his eyes away.

With a growl, he dragged himself from his bed. He saw that a cane had been left leaning against his side table. It was not his own, but it would do. He hefted himself from the mattress and rearranged his pyjamas. Then he slowly made halting progress across the room towards the door. He did not care if he was advised to rest; he would not just sit there and watch the under-butler breathe, battling for his life.

Outside, he found a chair and heavily sank into its hard surface as if it was a plush cushion. Relying on his cane with his ribs bound as tightly as they were was difficult and drained John of what little energy he had. The early morning air was crisp and fresh, and the valet was content to watch the birds chirp from the tree branches.

He had not realised he had started to doze until he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. In his semi-awake fright, he nearly swung his cane at the intruder.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. The nurses said we had a missing patient."

Doctor Clarkson walked around the chair until he was in front of John.

"What are you doing out here? You are meant to be resting, and beds are customary locations for such endeavours."

John shrugged before he could think better of the action, and wince at the twinge he felt through his torso.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Staying abed will be more recuperative than sitting out here in the cold, even if you don't actually fall asleep."

The doctor gestured towards the door, "Your body needs to rest after your ordeal, Mr. Bates. Come, let's go back inside."

John realised this was a battle he would not win and diverted his energies elsewhere.

"When can I go home?"

The doctor helped the other man to his feet as he answered, "As we discussed, I want to keep you here under observation for at least another day."

The two walked slowly towards the door, with the doctor bracing the valet as he stepped.

"I'd like to return home. To my wife. Today, if that's possible."

"I don't think you realise this but complications can arise from bruised ribs. I can't risk something happening and you being too far away and too stubborn to alert me."

"And what happens if I say I understand the risks?"

Dr. Clarkson frowned and searched the valet's face for a moment.

"Stay until this evening. If you're still keen to leave, I can examine you before you go. But if you feel in any way different – if your breathing becomes more laboured or painful, or if you feel tired or ill – anything at all, you must tell me."

By now they had reached the large room where Bates had slept. John sat back down on the bed and looked up at the doctor.

"Of course. Thank you. I will."

Dr. Clarkson hummed briefly before informing the valet that he meant to examine him at that moment as well. He walked away to assemble his kit.

* * *

Shortly after Dr. Clarkson finished listening to John's lungs and checking his bindings, Mrs. Hughes entered the hall. She carried with her a large basket.

"Mr. Bates. How lovely it is to see you." She beamed and took a seat next to John.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. It's good to see you again, too."

"I've been allowed some time to visit you. And to make deliveries," she said as she held her basket aloft.

The housekeeper placed the basket on her lap and revealed to John its contents. Several mince pies were nestled in cloth serviettes.

"Mrs. Patmore baked these last night when she heard of your safe return."

John broke into a grin. "You'll have to thank her for me."

"Or you can tell her yourself. Only—I mean, when is it that you'll be back to Downton?"

"I'm not sure, but hopefully sooner rather than later."

"How are you feeling? Mr. Carson or His Lordship won't have you back until you are completely healed, and I'm inclined to agree."

"I'm… fine. I bruised my ribs, but I just need to rest for a while."

Mrs. Hughes grimaced, "It was such ghastly news to hear of your disappearance. You should be impressed to see the size of your search party the other morning."

John fell mute at this. Mrs. Hughes' visit initially brought him joy and had distracted him from his thoughts, but now she was encouraging some of the same thoughts she had helped to banish. He already felt mortified and guilty for needing to be rescued; he did not need to hear about the size of the inconvenience he had caused His Lordship.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bates. You alone know how ghastly it truly was. I didn't mean to drudge up memories."

She patted his hand once before turning in her seat to face Thomas.

"And how is young Thomas?"

Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Hughes rose from her seat and approached the unconscious under-butler. She spent a moment absorbing the damage still left on his face before she lifted and held his hand for a moment.

"Poor dear."

John felt his stomach twist.

"You'll be pleased to know Daisy is beside herself to hear news about you, Thomas. Even after all these years, you still have a bit of sway over that impressionable girl."

She replaced his limp hand next to his body, and smoothed a hand over his raven hair.

"Well, I should be heading back," she turned to John, "I'm glad you're well. It's good to see a smile on Anna's face again."

John smiled and bid her goodbye before the housekeeper left. The smile quickly left his face as his gaze settled over the under-butler.


	11. Home Sweet Home?

To be lying in bed next to his wife was a relief. John could not have left Dr. Clarkson's practice soon enough. The still, antiseptic air of the ward made him feel tense and uncomfortable on his bed, and with nothing to occupy his time, he was quickly consumed with thoughts of his time spent in the ravine. His words to the under-butler echoed in his mind causing the valet to break out in a sheen of sweat. Little by little, his words became twisted and his thoughts infected with shame and anxiety.

John felt sick to his stomach as he realised he never asked Lord Grantham if they had found Lewis.

How that young boy deserved an early grave, and John was able to sit relatively unharmed, he could never understand. Furthermore, why was John left to watch over Thomas as he lay pale and motionless on his bed?

These thoughts made him restless, and he shifted his gaze from the under-butler. He caught sight of a window, which also happened to be near the furthest bed from Thomas, and he moved to relocate. He focused his attentions on the birds in the courtyard and tried to keep his thoughts from the internal whirlwind that threatened to overtake him.

When Doctor Clarkson found him still there later in the afternoon, John did not hesitate to demand his early release.

A strained shadow darkening John's face was apparent to the doctor, and, on condition that he passed a thorough examination, Richard allowed John to return home. And pass it he did, as Richard was satisfied with the sound of his lungs, reflexes, and range of movement. With a promise that he would alert Dr. Clarkson about any undue fatigue or pain, John had left for his cottage. He was surprised to find Lord Grantham's chauffeur waiting for him in front of the building; word had travelled amazingly quickly, but he was glad for the drive.

And now he was settled against a pile of pillows in his own bed.

"Mmm," Anna caressed John's chest as lightly as she dared, "this bed was too large without you."

She buried her nose in his neck as her husband smiled.

"That's something I never thought I'd hear you say," he pursed his lips in mock thought, "Maybe I should go missing more often."

She withdrew from his arms abruptly. "Don't you ever say that. You were gone two days, and I thought my world had stopped turning."

He sighed deeply before apologising. A pause followed as both stared at nothing in particular.

"I thought about you. Constantly."

"What was it like out there?"

John was silent for a moment as he battled internally with anger and loss. What cheap words could express what he had felt and seen? How could she expect him to share something like that. He felt adrift.

"I don't remember crashing, but just sitting in that ravine, helpless…" he trailed off. "I thought Thomas was dying."

He still could be, John realised.

"I heard you were quite the hero, Mr. Bates."

John stilled; he knew that statement to be false.

"I'm no hero. I said things to Thomas that would make you ashamed. It shames me."

"I could never be ashamed of you," she paused to kiss where his jaw met his neck, a place that never failed to make his toes curl, "And if you've forgotten, Thomas deserves as good as he gives and just as often."

"No," he shook his head, "No, Thomas was… confused. And I was angry. And cruel."

He still was, making him all the more unworthy of his wife's blind adoration. He knew he was why the under-butler was still at Dr. Clarkson's, wasting away. Thomas would have stayed awake until Alfred and Jimmy arrived had he not incited the under-butler to a childish yelling match.

And now his wife's words disparaging Thomas made him itch in an odd way, but he decided against giving words to any of these thoughts.

Anna frowned, as she was able to read her husband better than he thought, "I don't believe you. You're a good man. Thomas was unlucky to crack his head open, but you had no part to play in that. You'll have to excuse me if I don't shed tears over your good fortune."

An awkward pause followed, and John refused to meet her gaze when she searched for his.

"John—" She did not like the sound of the silence.

"I think I should like to walk you to Downton tomorrow. Say hello," He said to change the subject entirely.

"Shouldn't you still rest? Doctor Clarkson said—."

"Doctor Clarkson said to alert him if my condition changes any. And I will, but right now I feel fine." In truth, his chest felt tight and sore, but he did not appreciate the idea of spending the day alone in the cottage.

"I don't think it a good idea," Anna was unconvinced.

"I promise to leave as soon as I feel tired. I'll go slow."

The lady's maid hummed uncommitedly.

* * *

With only a few carefully timed and worded comments (i.e., pleas), she had agreed that he would be better off with the company Downton could offer. Now that he was sitting at the table for breakfast in the servants' hall, Bates regretted how easily swayed his wife was that morning for several reasons.

They had to rise incredibly early to accommodate the extra time it took for him to ready himself in the morning and to walk the path to the abbey so that they would both arrive in time for the morning's meal. Not that he had roused himself from a particularly deep or restorative sleep; nightmares had once again disrupted his slumber. Gruesome visions of Thomas were now accompanied with equally horrendous images of Lewis in John's dreams. The nightmares had begun to blur together in their quantity.

He figured he could do with at least a full day's worth of uninterrupted sleep by now.

Once up and ready, the walk had been slow and arduous. Anna had anticipated an unhurried pace that morning, so she was not surprised to see her husband moving much slower than usual. She did not know, however, that John was successfully masking any evidence of the persistent ache assaulting his torso. The way he leaned on his cane pulled at the muscles encasing his ribs like the day before, but the length of the walk made it almost unbearable.

At their arrival, he had been glad to see everyone. The other servants quickly encircled the valet to bid him warm welcome. In some cases, he received very enthusiastic handshakes, particularly from Mosesley, who was temporary valeting His Lordship while John recovered. He felt fortunate to receive such well wishers happy to see his return; however, once they had settled and had begun their meal, the conversation quickly turned to subjects that worried Bates.

"You must feel like a proper hero from a novel, Mr. Bates! You'll tell us what it was like to be stranded, won't you?" Ivy asked as she set down a plate of stacked pieces of toast in the centre of the table.

When Carson's voice boomed from the head of the table, John jumped. "Such a topic makes for inappropriate conversation over breakfast, Ivy. Mr. Bates, do not answer that.

"Oh but we're just so curious, Mr. Carson. And worried!" She turned back to the valet, "You were gone for two whole days!"

He scrambled for some sort of reply, but he found his throat had become oddly thick.

"This isn't from one of your romantic picture shows. I'm sure it wasn't no holiday in the sun."

He sent a curious look towards Miss O'Brien who had chosen that moment to speak up and defend him. The lady's maid ignored his gaze in favour of staring at Ivy.

"No of—of course not. I'm sorry, Mr. Bates."

"You can at least tell us how Thomas is, can you?" Daisy chirped in as she delivered a fresh pot of tea to the table.

John nearly choked on his porridge. Why would he know anything about the under-butler? He had not seen Thomas since the previous afternoon, and Dr. Clarkson had not been any more forthcoming about his diagnosis. Did he detect a note of suspicion in the maid's voice? Did she know? His stomach churned painfully at the thought.

He realised he had been too preoccupied by the strange buzzing that had spread throughout his body to give an answer. Refocusing his attention to the table, he heard the end of Mrs. Hughes' sentence. The housekeeper must have offered her own answer in lieu of his silence.

"…is sleeping. That is all there is to know," she gave a pointed look to those around the table, "And I won't bear repeating myself again."

Several servants shared uncomfortable grimaces, while Alfred and Jimmy shared equally pale complexions.

"Are we allowed to go see 'm then?"

Mrs. Hughes shared a discrete look with the butler before replying, "Thomas needs to recuperate in peace and quiet. He does not need to be distracted by inquisitive young girls."

Carson, meanwhile, tried to control the conversation.

"As there has not been an end to your responsibilities, Daisy, I see no reason why you should be allowed to abandon your tasks. You may, however, find it agreeable to keep him in your prayers as you work."

Daisy's face fell as she made her way back to the kitchen.

"Also," he addressed the table, "before everyone leaves to begin this morning's tasks, His Lordship would like everyone to know that duties have been suspended tomorrow for all of those who wish to attend Lewis' funeral service."

As if timed, one of the bells went off in the distance, and all of the servants took it as their cue to begin the day. Only Bates remained near the table, rising only for custom's sake.

Anna found John's hand and squeezed once. "Remember what you promised: first sign of anything, you'll go home."

She smiled as he nodded before she walked through the door and headed towards Mary's rooms.

Once alone, John let out a shaky breath as he lowered himself into his seat. He had not anticipated how overwhelming their attentions would be, nor how ill equipped he was to manage their curiosity. He had no clue how to answer any of their questions over breakfast. Had O'Brien and Mrs. Hughes not intervened on his behalf, he was sure he would have lied – or worse – lashed out.

He was incapable of answering even the simplest of questions, and he struggled just to put fortha calm face; there was no way he could be what they expected him to be.

He felt like an impostor, having left some integral part of him at the ravine.


	12. Fevered Dreams

Thomas opened his eyes to bright, indistinguishable lights that bore sharp pins into his retinas, and he squinted against the blur. He blinked a few times with lids that felt too heavy against eyes too dry. His head throbbed and the world beyond him felt vague and indistinct.

When he could open his eyes again, his view had focused slightly but remained too bright. Above him, he saw a white stucco ceiling that warped and rippled in a way that had him whimpering. It looked like a creamy, tumultuous sea that was angry and vengeful at its heart, and Thomas was worried he would fall in. He had never liked milk in anything but his tea and had cried when his father forced him to drink it under threats – belt at the ready – and drowning in it was unthinkable. His blankets were a heavy anchor over his legs, and they only served to drag him down into its cold and frothy depths. Thomas kicked at them ineffectually, his legs weak against their solid mass as he struggled to stay afloat. He could not drown, and that thought became a mantra repeated obsessively over and over again. He did not hear his panicked breaths over the heavy thudding of blood rushing in his ears.

Something snagged at his arm, and he renewed his struggles. Its grip was strong and worked to pull him under. Thomas tried to kick away, but he was just a scrawny boy; he was no match against its hold. With a horrible thought he realised that the world of pirates, watery graves, and terrible sea creatures from his father's books that he had convinced himself years ago did not exist had come to life and consumed him – a world in which he knew men were left to fight against waves and tentacles, only to descend into the inky depths of unfathomably dark ocean when the fight left them.

He gagged at the thought of briney water gushing down his throat and filling him until he was heavy and bloated. But he had nothing left to expel and could only ride out the painful contractions as his stomach rebelled against his conditions.

He tried to call for help, but his parched lips only mouthed at words clumsily while a desperate keen escaped from some dark part of him. He thought he heard his name being called. His father must be looking for him; for all that he had been known to do, he would never abandon his son alone at sea.

But his fear had consumed him, and he could not swim to locate his father. He could not move at all, and he was going to die; he was drowning, but he felt like he was on fire and each nerve was ablaze with pain. An oblong of radiant white burst through his vision and spread with an ever increasing high pitched knell until they burned through every sight and every sensation.

Everything was white; it was him and everywhere, and it was everything else.

And then white was black and he knew no more.

* * *

When Thomas next opened his eyes, a man with a white moustache leaned over him. He was speaking in hushed and hurried tones, and Thomas could not follow. Just as he would latch onto one escaped word, he realised several others had snuck past inconspicuously, and the captured word he seized in the first place held no significance on its own. It was the man's fault – he was talking too fast – so Thomas ignored him and tried to see where he was instead.

Thomas felt heavy and stiff. He had memories of the ocean, but he was oddly dry – roasting in fact – in a bed so perhaps he had been wrong.

"Mr. Barrow! Can you hear me?"

Thomas recognised the tone and its strict authority, but he would not bring an arm up to salute, even if he had the energy.

He cursed his weakened state when he could not resist the voice in its plea to meet its eyes.

"Do you know where you are?"

"'ospital," he croaked, in desperate need of water against his parched throat. The man must have read his mind because he tipped a cool glass of water against his mouth. Thomas drank from it greedily and tried to follow it as the man removed it too soon.

"Very good. And can you tell me your name?"

"Corporal Thomas Barrow, 2nd Battalion, Yorkshire Regiment[1],"

"Thomas—"

"Can't send m'back, sir, please you can't – die out there, can't—"

He lost himself in the twists and turns of his own ramblings, only sure that he _could not_ go back there and would say anything to make that clear. The man who had questioned him was completely ignored, though Thomas saw that he remained with him, speaking to him, trying to pacify him.

It wasn't until the man clasped Thomas' shoulders in a vice-like grip that Thomas stopped.

"Thomas. I'm not sending you back because I cannot – the war is _over_. There is no war to go back to; you are in Downton," the man spoke in slow and certain terms.

Thomas gaped at the man, trying to process the information.

"You've been in an accident, and you have a very high temperature. It may be hard to think clearly right now, but you must calm down."

"Doctor Clarkson," he said airly.

"Are you with us?"

The under-butler merely nodded, having spent his energy. He was tired and conveniently horizontal, so Thomas let his heavy eyelids lower.

And then he awoke again, but Dr. Clarkson was gone and the lighting had changed. He looked up to see that the ceiling was solid and unmoving, but he did not understand why he made to check it. At his right, there was a table with a glass and water pitcher. He leaned towards it and a wet compress fell from his forehead. Thomas extended a shaking hand for the glass, but only managed to knock it onto the ground where it shattered. He stared dumbly at the shards.

"Mr. Barrow. You're awake."

He never really remembered falling asleep, so he supposed that was correct.

"I'm going to conduct a few tests now that you're conscious. They're nothing to be worried about, but you must stay awake."

Thomas had not realised his eyes had all but closed and he shook himself awake at the doctor's prompting. It was a decision he soon regretted, as he was subjected to a series of incomprehensible tests. The doctor had him perform strange movements, and the injured man quickly grew tired of following ridiculous instructions to bend his arms and legs, curl his toes, and wiggle his fingers. As simple as the tasks were, his head was still throbbing, and his resulting movements were awkward. Eventually, Dr. Clarkson looked satisfied with his progress and stopped issuing commands.

Thomas was surprised to find that his eyes had closed on their own accord.

He was just so tired.

But the doctor continued to speak urgently and explained how he must stay lying down to be observed while his fever lowered. Funny, he had no intention of getting up. Thomas was amazed to then hear he had been in an accident that fractured his skull. His head certainly hurt enough, but everything before breaking his glass was murky. It was with indifference of that knowledge that he ignored whatever else Dr. Clarkson had to say and fell back asleep.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In my very, very brief research, I found that stretcher bearers were typically pulled from combatant regiments and were not a part of the RAMC (Royal Army Medical Corps). They were, however, under the Batallion Medical Officer's command, trained in first aid by the MO, and ordered to bring in the dead and wounded from the battlefield. Of course, I chose the Yorkshire Regiment and his battalion somewhat arbitrarily as this is only a minor detail in this chapter. If/when I do that war story, I'd invest a little more time in this.


	13. Condemned to Be

Consciousness was just beginning to flit at the edges of Thomas' perception. His mind, accustomed to muted inertia, was resistant to thought, as awareness sparked and slowly spread from one foggy neuron to another. Ideas were formless and unsubstantial but comfortingly so; he knew not of himself or the world; he just _was._

Gradually, sensation accompanied his ever-expanding cognisance, and the veil that separated him from the world lifted.

His first fully formed thought was that a glacial frost had settled in his chest and it was attempting to seep into the marrow of his bones. Violent shivers racked his body in an attempt to generate some heat, but the friction only served to alert Thomas to how hyper-sensitive his skin was at it moved against the scratchy material of his clothes and blankets. But he would endure the uncomfortable feeling of rough blankets against sore skin because he knew beyond them blew an arctic draught that bit into his exposed face and leached whatever warmth remained in his limbs. He pulled at the sheets and covered his head, making sure to buffet any opening. Thomas drew his legs towards his body and clenched his icy hands behind his bent knees.

He still had yet to open his eyes, as he had no desire to bear witness to a world so cold.

"Mr. Barrow, what are you doing?" A feminine voice asked from somewhere outside of his stronghold – a lost soul in the tundra, but there was no room for two under his blankets, so she was going to have to suffer. He attempted to burrow further unto himself and only stopped when his knees brushed his forehead.

The blankets were pulled down to reveal his contorted body and allowed a gust of frigid air to nip at his vulnerable skin. A whimper escaped as he bemoaned his fate.

"Nnooo. C-cold," he whined as he grabbed at the blankets. A quick tug found them immobilised.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barrow. You only feel cold because of how high your fever is right now," the disembodied voice continued, as he still clenched his eyes shut.

The blankets were wrestled easily from his shaking hands and pulled away from him completely. With a shout, he attempted to follow his blankets and saw that they were now pooled in the arms of a young, petite nurse who stood at the end of his cot. When he made a grab for them and managed to brush his fingers against their itchy fabric, the woman backed away without a word, merely arching her brow at his theatrics.

Thomas collapsed back onto his now naked mattress and groaned miserably. A red flush burned brightly across the flesh of his cheeks, its russet blushed in pits against otherwise pale white skin. Through heavy lids, he tracked her movements with eyes that were glazed and dull.

"I know it doesn't feel like it, but trust me, you'll overheat buried under all these blankets like that."

He lobbed a barbed look towards the nurse.

"I suppose one sheet wouldn't hurt," she conceded as she draped the cotton fabric over his body.

He clutched at it as if it were a life line and opened his mouth to demand for more, but before he could utter a single sound, a thermometer was thrust into his gaping jaws and his lips closed unconsciously around it. With a frown, he tried to recall when the nurse had time to fold his other sheets and find a thermometer with which to muzzle him.

"Do you remember my name?"

A quick scan of her oval face and her neatly pinned auburn hair revealed nothing familiar; how could he remember her name if they had never met before?

"My name is Nurse Evans, and I've been looking after you for the past few days."

At his confused look, she continued, "Oh, don't fuss yourself. You've taken quite the bump to your head and now this fever. We'll probably go over this again a few more times."

She pulled at the thermometer and examined the mercury, "I'll be offended if you don't know me by the time you're up and about on your own steam though."

Thomas was at a loss for words. His memory was a murky, shadowy space that was filled with elusive images and feelings, and the attempt to navigate their hazy waters left his head aching. He felt like he was two steps behind the nurse, whose cavalier words were complimented by a speedy purpose that made her look unnatural, untouchable, fleeting; he could not keep up.

While he considered his situation, Nurse Evans drew his remaining sheet to his waist and began to undo the buttons on his undershirt. Once she completed her task she turned to her work tray behind her and soaked several compresses. After a beat, Thomas recognised that he was usually fully clothed when in the presence of women, and propriety demanded an unbuttoned shirt to be fastened. He sluggishly pulled his shirt closed and attempted to cover his newly exposed chest both for modesty and heat. When she turned back to her charge, Nurse Evans easily overpowered his limbs and removed them as his shield, draping a large cloth that had been drenched in cool water in their place.

Thomas gasped as it suctioned to his skin, and his breaths came shallow and quick as the damp weight infected him with its chill. He writhed against rivulets of water driving its frozen stream down the sides of his chest where they beaded at the mattress below him. A small keen escaped his closely pressed lips.

The sound of water droplets was the only warning he had for the next sodden addition, as Nurse Evans quickly placed a soaking towel under each of his arms. He actually cried out in shock as the wet fabric pressed against his sore skin, and he frantically tried to grab at the towels with a moan, but her slight fingers grasped his own clumsy digits and pulled them away from the cloth.

"Shh," she soothed, "Just one more and you'll feel much better."

He groaned his disagreement but did little else to resist her; his strength against the onslaught was beginning to wane. A fourth soggy towel was wrapped around his neck, and he shivered as it sent an uncomfortable jolt down his spine, renewing his shivering twice-fold.

"There. Don't look so low, it's unbecoming."

He would feel better if he could just have a blanket. Several, in fact.

"Cover," he pleaded.

Wait, that's not what he meant.

"Li—" he floundered for a moment. What was the word?

"Blan-kets?" he ground out with effort. Had it always been so hard to talk? It felt like his tongue was a calcified slab of meat that had long since disconnected from his brain.

She smiled gently and offered, "Just try to rest."

He blinked and was alone, leaving him to thoughts that soon swirled and swept him into a darkness that ebbed and flowed against the light of the day, and his anxieties were lost to the sea of indistinct sensations and ideas. Comprehension was perpetually beyond reach, yet Thomas was not disturbed at the fluidity of his thoughts; he was comfortable there, floating at the edges. He continued to doze while the moist towels leaked their excess liquid into his mattress and slowly matched the heat of his body. For an indeterminate amount of time, he fluctuated between sleep and consciousness. The compress' presence pulled him back to reality from time to time, grounding him against his wandering thoughts.

The next time he bobbed up from the shadows' surface, however, the world was not quite as he had last left it. The heavy mass of the compress against his chest was now an unwanted force pressing down on him, and his heart thumped fitfully beneath it. While he had slept, the thudding muscle had emerged a burning core to the blazing furnace that had become his body.

Beneath him, the damp mattress had ignited, becoming a molten flow threatening to devour him. It burned his back as he and the bed were soldered together, fused to suffer the inferno as one. The once pleasant towels now plastered themselves to his arms and neck, making his skin crawl from their oppressive closeness. Thomas kicked at his sheet and released himself from its fiery clutches; however, it did little to alleviate the claustrophobic humidity that seethed around him. The air, a thick steam, scorched his lips and challenged his lungs as his chest heaved to take in more oxygen.

His whole body was dripping with sweat, and his clothes now clung to him like a second skin. Underneath his bandage, the sweltering heat compounded and it felt like it was frying his brain. Trembling fingers found the edges of the plaster and needled their way under its fabric. Without any finesse, he shoved at the wrap and pressed it away from his slick skin, stretching the tight bandage to its limits.

"I can't leave you for one second on your own, can I?"

Those small hands from before wrapped themselves around his and stilled his fretful tampering. The lithe fingers were blessedly cool against his own, which were clumsy and swollen in their heat.

"I told you to trust me – it's not as cold as you thought, eh?"

Cold? He was in hell.

"Oh, come off it, Mr. Barrow, you're not in hell. Your fever is just breaking. Do I look anything like the Morning Star?"

A superficial survey of the nurse revealed her to be an average girl, absent of any horns or spiked tail, but had not they been talking about the stars? How could he see them when the ceiling's solid structure hid them from view? He thought perhaps if he strained hard enough, his eyes could see through to the sky.

He heard her laugh as she peeled the towel from his chest.

"Maybe this will change your mind," she placed a freshly dampened cloth against his chest. His gasp at the cool fabric soon turned into a purr, as its polar temperature pressed against his burning skin.

The nurse removed the other towels from him before she directed her attentions to his now ruined bandage. She unwound the dressing and took the time to wipe the sweat from his face. While his forehead was still free of any covering, she combed through his hair quickly and attempted to make it look presentable. Thomas leaned into her touch; the feel of her fingers against his scalp blissful.

"You mustn't play with your bandages."

He hummed in apathy; it was too hot to think, so he dozed while she attended him.

A cool glass was placed against his lips, and he drank greedily until he swallowed too much and coughed.

"Careful. Now rest."

Evans. Her name, he suddenly remembered, was Evans.

"Evens."

She smiled and patted his arm, "Close enough, love, but I'm touched you remembered."

He was too worn out try to pronounce her name again and instead let the crest of shadows lay claim to him. Briefly, in the pinhole of his mind, he was back at the abbey, lying in bed and enjoying the last few minutes before he had to begin his day. If he stretched his senses, he could just hear the morning's bustle begin its clamour.

Time shifted and Thomas sunk into ignorance, unaware that the abbey, at that moment, was unusually quiet, for both up and downstairs were still. Servants and family had left its corridors for the village church and were now standing together in the cemetary.

Unsurprisingly, it chose to rain on the day of Lewis' funeral.

A light pattering fell from a dull sky and showered the attendees. Many wisely chose to bring and employ umbrellas; however, the pervasive damp cut through wet and dry clothing alike, leaving few unaffected by the chill. John welcomed the cool drizzle and breathed in the moisture that clung to the air free from the protection of an umbrella.

The crowd that congregated around Lewis' grave consisted mostly of Downton employees, subdued and solemn as the coffin was lowered into the ground. John stood to the back of the gathering with his wife at his side. The coaches and stable hands – those who had been closer to Lewis during his brief time at the abbey – had drifted towards the front. They were joined in serious reflection by Lord Grantham, and even at such a distance, John could see lines creasing the man's face. The earl's posture was impeccable, however, and Lady Grantham stood next to him in sympathetic elegance despite the shower.

Bates tried not to look at the boy's family, but the grief that poured off of them continuously attracted his gaze. He found himself stealing glances at the mother, whose slumped posture and twisted lips were pulled down by the weight of her grief, but her leaking eyes betrayed the true impact of the crushing loss made by the death of her eldest son. To her left stood her hunched husband, Lewis' father, and father of the subdued toddler bundled in his arms, whose eyes were trained on the lowering casket as the priest brought to a close the ceremony.

As the black garbed bodies began to shift and disperse, John noticed the earl try to catch his eye over the sea of heads. He did not relish any conversation with the man, so he ushered Anna towards the pathway that ran before the church. They had barely taken a few steps in the sodden grass when Lord Grantham managed to catch up to the couple.

"Bates, wait please."

Unable to defy his employer no matter how much he longed to continue marching towards the path and along its way until either it ended or until his legs could no longer carry him forward, he stopped.

"Such a cheerless affair," Robert said gesturing back towards the grave.

"Indeed, my lord." Though John had other choice words for it, namely nauseating and pointless.

"How are you faring? I heard you came to Downton yesterday; I'm sorry to have missed you."

The earl had missed him, of course, because John had orchestrated it that way. Downton did not have the restorative qualities he had hoped for. When he first returned to the abbey after returning from jail, its elaborate façade and solid foundations were a soothing sight; its reaching towers erupting forth from the greens had melted his discomfort and tension, and John entered its doors a happy man. Even below stairs, its draughty corridors and darkened rooms had exuded a utility and energy that had once been welcoming, and he had assumed it would again ground him against the tumultuous feeling of unease that had yet to lift since his rescue. But as he sat drinking tea while the others scampered about and the rooms hummed with their activity, it only stressed the discord he felt at his heart. It was no curative return to grace but a reminder of his loneliness in incompetence. He was a nuisance amongst their labour. So he left, an easy enough feat, with the right words hinting of fatigue to Mrs. Patmore, and he had spent the remainder of his day in bed.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't feeling up to it."

"Of course," Robert excused with a wave, "And I'm sure Anna agrees that you should rest as much as you can."

Anna sent polite smile at the earl, as she had informed her husband of such a sentiment the previous night when she arrived home from Downton. Though she had only expressed concern, the situation rapidly spiralled out of her control and into a distressingly tense situation as John attempted to ignore the conversation altogether. Unused to such discord, the strain between them had simmered overnight and overflowed into today.

"Yes, well…" John shifted and took a step towards the path. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but he did not care that his actions were rude – and so obviously so; he was eager to leave.

Yet, the earl endured.

"I wanted to speak with you, actually… I've received word from Dr. Clarkson that Thomas is awake."

John stilled as relief coloured his world. At his employer's serious tone and mention of the doctor, he had thought the worst - for a moment believing this to be just another nightmare that saw to the end of the under-butler's life.

"He's been conscious as of yesterday, but he's not out of the woods yet. In fact, Dr. Clarkson says that it will be awhile yet before we can see him, but I thought you would like to know. Dr. Clarkson said you had been asking after him while you were recovering there yourself."

Bates replied shortly, "Yes. Thank you."

"Well," Robert added, finally noticeably derailed by his valet's behaviour, "I'll see you whenever you're ready to return then."

Lord Grantham nodded at the lady's maid, "Anna."

Robert watched with a frown as John limped towards the path. He thought that the man would have been pleased to hear of Thomas' return to consciousness, but John had looked mildly pained throughout their entire exchange. In fact, Robert thought the whole thing had been rather awkward.

Cora appeared at his arm and followed his stormy gaze to the retreating valet.

"Is everything all right?"

Her husband shook his head. "No, I daren't say it is."

She looked at up at Robert with concern, "What's wrong?"

"That I cannot tell you."

The uncomfortable atmosphere that had upset His Lordship had not gone unnoticed by Anna. She was still frustrated by their miscommunication from the night before and the ensuing silence of the morning. She only wished to understand.

"So, what was that all about?"

For a moment the annoyance at another question made him queasy. He had thought he had made himself quite clear the night before; he did not appreciate the near constant questioning of his behaviour or his words. John was tired: exhausted from nights interrupted by nightmares and weary of prying interrogations.

"What?" Silence, as he had learned, did not work, so he feigned ignorance.

"You know what. Why were you so rude to His Lordship?"

This was exactly what he was hoping to avoid, although he was not entirely sure why. He only knew that it was something that he was incapable of sharing – whatever 'it' was. He felt at odds with the world and just wanted to be left alone. John was rapidly becoming a stranger within his own thoughts and the others' constant attention on him and his feelings was rapidly straining his tenuous grasp on composure. He felt restless and on edge in anyone's presence.

"Was I rude? I didn't mean it."

"Is it because of today? With Lewis and all?" She asked secretively, as if they had not just departed from a funeral that the entire staff attended.

Of course it was because of Lewis. At least, it was partly true, as thoughts of the coach bled into a myriad of others vying for his attention.

A young man with a promising future had just been buried six feet below them, and his wife was worried that he had snubbed His Lordship.

He was bothered by a world that set these priorities into maxim;

He was angry at, in the words of the priest, the supposed 'divine providence' that led Lewis to his death and Thomas to injury. The very same celestial intervention that had allowed a young family watch their eldest son lowered into the ground, while John stood among them in relative health.

But these thoughts were abstract and intangible in a way that only threads of the mind could be – personal and wordlessly meandering – making them impossible to express, even to his wife, who – above it all – he loved more than anything else. And he would continue to love her even if it drained him of his strength and left him a rotting husk of a man; he was just worried that fate was rapidly becoming true.

But more importantly, he was angry that he could not confide in this woman, who he knew loved him just as much in return and only wanted to help. She so genuinely wanted to help, but her offering was not something he deserved, so he pushed her away instead.

He huffed, "No, it isn't because of Lewis."

Anna was quickly losing her own temper. She could not understand John's withdrawal and was hurt by his avoidance.

"Then what is it? Tell me, please." She stopped walking and grabbed his arm, desperately searching her husband's face to read the lines in hopes that they could communicate what the man could not.

He stared into her eyes and spoke with finality, "It's nothing."

She pursed her lips as she realised the graveyard had emptied of the last of the Downton employees. Anna looked down the path and saw the backs of the servants trailing along in the direction of the abbey.

She made an abortive movement with her arms. "I have to go back to Downton."

"Then I shall see you tonight," he said before quickly kissing her on the cheek.

Without waiting for a response, he resumed walking along the path, determinedly thinking that it was not a retreat.

When John arrived later at his cottage, the last of the energy that had propelled him from bed and through the service finally fizzled out. He felt drained, and his body sagged as he trudged through the door. It felt as if every limb had been tied down with a weight.

Upon removing himself of his outer jacket and shoes, he limped directly towards his bedroom. His limping steps never slowed as he crossed over the entryway to the small and orderly room, and he only stopped when he reached his bed. John yanked roughly at the thick blankets and burrowed deep into the space left by the unfurled bedclothes. Heedless of his best and most sombre suit, he cocooned himself in the heavy fabric, where he laid for the remainder of the day, not asleep, sheltered from the diffused daylight seeping through the window and most definitely _not_ thinking about anything.


	14. In a Current Health to Stay

John was startled from his doze to the sound of the front door's latch closing and was surprised to see that hours had passed and the room was now cloaked in darkness. Since returning from Lewis' funeral, he had more or less stayed in bed. He had only left the shelter of his sheets to change out of his suit late into the afternoon – a suit and shirt that now had to be cleaned and pressed – switching it for his pyjamas in anticipation of Anna's exasperation over having slept in his formal wear. Once he donned his sleepwear, he had returned to the blankets' embrace, not leaving them even for supper.

Beyond the protection of the blankets still wrapped tightly around him, he could hear the muffled sounds of Anna entering the cottage. He tightened the fabric around himself, breathing in the thin, stale air trapped by its material. At least by the time Anna had returned from attending Mary, it was late enough in the evening to excuse his presence in bed.

The cover of darkness, however, did not excuse him from his wife. With a flick of a match, she had illuminated their bedroom with the light of an oil lamp. She filled the room with sounds of her readying for bed, and John peaked from the covers to look at her as she relayed him the events of her day. Asking him direct questions had yet to be successful, so her strategy that night was to talk as openly as possible with her husband, in hopes that he would eventually join her.

When she caught the gleam of flickering light in his eyes, watching her as she undressed, she smiled coquettishly. Anna disrobed slowly, fastidiously returning each article of clothing to their rightful place – her body a bare and pale image cutting the darkened room in chiaroscuro – as she spent more time than necessary posturing and folding her garments. She reluctantly covered her body with a worn nighty after she had finished her task, before turning down the lamp's rope and extinguishing its flame, descending the room into darkness.

John blinked at the room now cast in deep shadows and felt the bed dip. His eyes could just make out the soft light of the moon cast through the window as Anna pressed up against him, but the sight of the beams filtering through glass transported John back to the night spent leaning against the underside of the carriage. A hand rested warm and heavy against his stomach startled him from such thoughts, and a second entangled with his hair; he turned slightly, and his hand went to her waist, grasping her firmly. Her lips brushed against his own once – softly – before her tongue darted against his mouth. John opened himself to her and met her tongue with his, sliding in a familiar dance. His grip on the curve of her waist tightened, needing to bring her closer to him.

When Anna drew away, John chased her warmth.

"I am glad that you're home," she whispered breathlessly.

While he considered whether or not that warranted a response, her hand dipped to his waistband, where it briefly teased where skin met fabric before continuing further down until he was in hand. Then he could not remember if he had ever meant to reply, as she squeezed once and adjusted her grip to stroke him until he was agonizingly hard and panting for release.

"Anna—"

"Shh," she said as her thumb circled his head once before her hand disappeared and he remembered to breathe.

He saw a shadow of her outline move further down the bed while she branded him with a trail of kisses down his exposed side, hot tongue burning against his skin. John lifted his hips as she tugged at his pyjamas bottoms, breath hitching as the fabric pulled against his erection. Desire throbbed through his body, tightening unused muscles in his stomach, pulsating through his member. Lips burned against the inside of his thigh once before she took him in her mouth, moist and hot, and he was overwhelmed by the sensation of her tongue running against him. Lost to the pleasure, he threw his head back against his pillow, face twisted, eyes clenched, and chest heaving, despite the pull of bruised ribs; if anything the ache combined with the desperate stretch of muscles and tendons compounded the swelling pleasure and sharpened its touch. John could feel a dark flush burning across his face and spreading throughout his body. He moaned, heart beating; it was becoming to be too much – her tongue swirling against his tip before enveloping him further, hand still wrapped and moving at his base – he gripped her shoulders, careful not to her pull her closer even though her needed her – all of her – and dug into her flesh, moaning.

John groaned out hurried words of warning as the pressure built into an overpowering throbbing – pleasure surging – until everything tightened, his back arching and fingers clutching, and the world disappeared as waves of bliss crashed over him and pulsed throughout his body. His breath caught as his back pulled and his ribs protested loudly.

In the aftermath of the orgasm he lay wilted and panting against his pillow, electricity still crackling at his toes. Beside him he felt his wife shift and giggle and then sidle up against his torso, mindful of his bandaged chest.

"I love you," She offered in the dark.

"I love you, Anna," he said, voice thick with arousal and fatigue – meaning it despite all that he had felt during the day.

Silence descended on the room as John's heart calmed its thumping and his breath evened out. He was just on the edge of consciousness when Anna breathed quietly.

"I'm here whenever you're ready to tell me… whatever it is you need to tell me."

He was startled back to awareness at her words but managed not to tense underneath her form. It all felt suddenly too close.

* * *

In the morning, Anna had joined the servants seated at the table in breakfast. Work had resumed in its normal, albeit more sober, fashion the previous afternoon once everyone returned from the funeral. With the rise of a new sun, the morning's meal served to break up the gloomy air that had clung to them since the service. No one was particularly joyful, but the sadness that shadowed their conversations had dissipated. Quiet chatter flowed easily across the table as everyone began to eat.

While the others tucked into their porridges and pieces of toast, Mrs. Hughes took the time to evaluate the lady's maid that sat across from her. The head housekeeper noticed that Anna had begun to look drawn, carrying a tension in her mouth that was usually absent. Mrs. Hughes thought it curious and a nebulous worry tinted her thoughts.

"And how is Mr. Bates today, Anna?" She asked.

The lady's maid briefly flicked her eyes to meet Mrs. Hughes' as she twirled her spoon in the bowl. She had yet to eat any of her porridge.

"Oh, he's all right, thanks."

"That's good to hear. Any news of when he'll return to valet for His Lordship?"

Beside Anna, Mr. Molsely unsuccessfully attempted a look of disinterest as the two women spoke. In reality, he was so desperate to hear her reply that he nearly missed what was said.

"Actually, he's coming back today," she smiled wanly.

It was a decision that she did not agree with, and their opposing views had been the cause of a slight argument at dawn.

That morning as she prepared for her day, he had revealed his plan to return to Downton; he had been short and curt in a way that left Anna baffled and frustrated, so she was quick to voice her objection, citing he still needed to rest. In turn, he had taken exception to her opposition and had become evasive, even cold; any remaining amity between the had two dissolved, and Anna left their cottage upset and largely confused – she still did not know what was troubling her husband.

"Does Lord Grantham know about this?" Mr. Carson asked, with an eye to Mr. Molesley, "Not that we do not happily welcome Mr. Bates, but there is a matter of who should look after His Lordship."

"Oh, I couldn't say. He only just made the decision to return this morning," she tried to remain off-hand when as she spoke, but under Mrs. Hughes' watchful eyes, she was failing.

She seemed to catch herself at Carson's baffled look and explained, "He said he would arrive just after the family's breakfast, so as to allow Mr. Molesley the opportunity to dress His Lordship."

Carson frowned, "That is most unusual, but I suppose if His Lordship agrees then there should be no problem. I'm sure he'll be as happy as we are to hear Mr. Bates is well enough to return. Mr Molesley," he looked at the man, "you should alert Lord Grantham to Mr. Bates' tentative plans when you wake him this morning. Once Mr. Bates arrives we can co-ordinate his take-over and you can return to Lady Violet's."

Mrs. Hughes spared a glance for the butler before turning to Molesley and offering, "You may stay here for tea and supper, of course, Mr. Molesley, if you'd like."

The temporary valet had remained relatively dumbfounded throughout the exchange, and it showed on his slack face. He had assumed he would be Lord Grantham's valet for until at least the end of the week; rather naïvely, he had hoped he could retain the position for an additional week on top of the one he already worked. Now he was to lose the post in a matter of hours.

"Oh, I'm not so sure Mrs. Hughes. But then again, Lady Violet doesn't expect me for some time," he paused as he picked up his tea cup, "Perhaps I shall stay."

He looked into the bottom of his cup and considered glumly his fate.

* * *

John slipped into the dining room. His inquiring knock on the door jam had received a muffled welcome from the room within, and when he stepped into the room he saw Lord Grantham breakfasting alone. To the side of the serving table, Carson gave him a welcoming nod but maintained his ram-rod straight posture.

The earl had finished his meal and was browsing the day's newspaper. At his entrance, shock coloured Robert's face as he straightened in his seat.

"Bates!" Robert set down his newspaper, "Molesley said you were coming today, but I didn't dare believe him. Are you sure you're ready to come back?"

John nodded, "I'm sure, my lord."

John was not quite as sure of his return as he was just certain he could not stay alone in his cottage. He had spent the better part of two days now lying in bed, and as much as he needed the rest – he still had yet to sleep a whole night through – he had become restless and could not bear spending hours reliving the horrors of the ravine. Because that's all that he could focus on when alone – memories and nightmares had rolled into one entity and dominated his thoughts. Having the distraction of his duties would outweigh his reluctance to work and talk with his fellow servants and even the earl. Rather optimistically, he hoped that he once he threw himself into his role as His Lordship's valet, things would return to normal and he could breathe easy again.

"But your ribs?" Robert asked, breaking through his thoughts.

"Sore, but it's to be expected. Nothing I can't manage."

Having lived with his ruined leg for so long, it was nothing to work with pain ever pressing in the background of his thoughts. In fact, he had removed his bindings that morning and didn't feel any worse for it; the pulled muscles ached in a quiet way that could be easily pushed to the back of his mind.

"And how are you otherwise?" Robert thought for sure he was overstepping his boundaries, even as the man's employer, but John had entered his rooms with such a sullen air that he could not help but to ask after his well-being. A brief look towards his butler implied that he noticed the changes in the valet as well.

"Fine."

The dark bags under his eyes and the thin way his lips pursed suggested otherwise, but the earl was at a loss at what else he could say. Propriety burned and made him think he had already asked too much; he knew he couldn't intimate such thoughts delicately enough to carry through with any more questioning.

"Good," he held his valet's stare for a second, "Well, this is a step towards normality. Once Thomas returns, it can be like it never happened."

John could only wish; he desperately hoped that he had not been permanently changed by the disaster.

The earl shifted and looked at his paper.

"You'll have to see to Branson when he returns from the farms – he'll be just as glad to see you here. And the ladies, of course!"

"Of course, my lord," John tried to smile, feeling nothing more than indifference at the prospect of seeing the Crawley family. In fact, the idea of seeing the others was akin to returning to his duties; he did not particularly want to do it, nor did he particularly want to be at the abbey, and it was more than not wanting to be alone with his own thoughts. John knew he was rapidly becoming a burden to the others, and he could not continue to do so, especially when he was skirting his duties because he would rather not to talk to any of them. Before too long, he knew their acceptance and kindness would run out when they recognised him for what he was – an undeserving fraud.

Now that Lord Grantham had learned of his return, John excused himself and headed towards His Lordship's rooms; he'll have to see what Molesley had done with the earl's things.


	15. Visitor's Hour

The following morning, Bates was in Lord Grantham's rooms, helping him dress for the day. He had just helped the earl into his jacket when the man began to speak.

"You'll be happy to hear this, Bates," Robert mentioned, as if he had just remembered the piece of information then, "I've received word from Dr. Clarkson that Thomas is well enough to receive visitors now."

"That's excellent news, my lord," John admitted, for once expressing a genuine feeling. He smiled slightly to hear of the under-butler's health.

"Isn't it?" Robert craned his neck to look at his valet, hoping to share a smile, but the other man had turned to grab a clothes brush from his organiser.

Turning back, he suggested, "I thought today would be as good as any to see him – he must be lonely in the ward by himself for so long. I thought you might like to accompany me."

The brush against his shoulders halted briefly before resuming their path across his back, the pressure increasing just slight enough to be noticeable.

"Bates?" Robert inquired at the valet's continued silence.

"I have a few of your jackets that require mending today," he finally said.

"Well, could they not wait? I have no pressing engagements soon."

"No. It's only – I've been behind on things that need attending since I've been away, my lord. It would be best if I worked on them now, so they don't pile up."

It was not an outright lie; he did have quite a long list of chores that needed to be done in addition to his regular duties now that he had returned to the job. Molesley was a good valet, he was sure, but there were things needing pressing and mending and objects that needing organising since the other man had valeted the earl. They were little things, however, and none of them were urgent enough that they could not wait a day. Or even two.

Truthfully, he did not want to visit the hospital for purely selfish reasons. He knew he should offer the man company; he understood only too well how stiflingly boring the ward where Thomas was could be, and he was honestly relieved to hear that Thomas was on the mend; but John could not face the other man and look into his accusing eyes and see what he felt reflected in that gaze. He was afraid to see the disappointment and ridicule that he knew surely would greet him, as he proved not to be the sort of man he thought he was in the ravine. He had lashed out at Thomas because he had been angry at the man for things that were beyond his control – because he had been afraid. John loathed to think that he was a coward but even now he was scared to confront him.

Robert frowned at John's flimsy excuse and took a moment to respond.

"You must do what you think is best, but I, of course, will still go later this afternoon, if you happen to change your mind."

"Yes. Thank you," Bates offered, covering a cringe at the sound of disappointment in the earl's voice.

* * *

Thomas had not thought he had any energy to actively hate anyone in his current state, but Dr. Clarkson and his team were certainly testing that theory, especially Nurse Evans. Ever since he had been able to remain awake for longer than a handle of minutes at a time, she was there, prodding and poking him, asking him stupid questions, and now, she was forcing him to walk the length of the room and back. Or stagger, more like, as he gripped her outstretched arms against vertigo that upset his usually sure steps.

Nurse Evans noticed a shift in his posture that signified his fatigue, and she quickly directed him back to his bed, where he dropped down heavily into the mattress. He knew he liked her in spite of himself, for she was usually very kind when dealing with him. Thomas found that he could tolerate her presence because this kindness was paired with an assertive and lively wit that belied her small stature.

Had the room not spun wildly, Thomas would have been embarrassed to be seen so winded after such an unchallenging task (he would have also had words for the state of his lumpy mattress), but as it was, he was used to such humiliations. Over the course of the past few days, his pride had taken some sound abuse. Those pokes and prods usually elicited uncontrollable moans, and those questions deadened his tongue, leaving both he and the nurse more confused than anything. And now, the added walks (like he was some dog) left him a sweaty and trembling mess. If he was not so tired all the time, he would have wept. For now, he settled for melting into his uncomfortable bed.

He allowed the nurse to smooth his hair out as she played with his bandage.

"That'll do for today, Thomas," she said having assumed the privilege of using his Christian name days ago, "Doctor Clarkson will be seeing you soon."

As he was already half-asleep, Nurse Evans could have said anything and Thomas would have still nodded weakly in agreement. Not trusting his voice, he closed his eyes against the spinning sensation that had yet to subside.

A throat clearing above him prompted him to open his eyes, and the sight that greeted him made him wish he could convincingly feign unconsciousness for a little longer. Dr. Clarkson stood before him with Lord Grantham at his side.

"You've an anxious visitor, Mr. Barrow," Richard said with a smile.

The earl grinned, happy to see Thomas awake. The under-butler still looked unnaturally pale even in the soft natural light of the afternoon, but his opened eyes lent a measure of health to his appearance and calmed Robert from his earlier distress. Though Richard had given word Thomas was conscious and coherent, the earl had spent his journey recalling images of Thomas sprawled, lifeless against the cot.

Under the earl's gaze, Thomas felt pinned as an insect under inspection and tried not to squirm. He realised belatedly he was still lying down in front of His Lordship and moved to sit up, but when his arms refused to obey, he settled for leaning against his headboard. The earl's smile faltered, and Thomas knew he was displeased in his performance. He was costing him money at this point, both in his absence at Downton and in his presence in bed, where he was like a flattened ant under the earl's polished shoe.

As far as bugs went, he supposed ants weren't so bad. They were industrious and strong and could raid picnic goodies; and they never looked unhappy, but now that he was thinking of it, Thomas reasoned it was impossible for an ant to express any sort of mood. Perhaps they had their own language that they used to inform others when they were sad or hungry or when the others needed to fuck off, and Thomas tried to imagine the tacky clacking noises he would make as an ant. It was no matter though; he would not want to be scraped from anyone's shoe, regardless of how productive, tough, or not-unhappy he may have been during his life as an ant.

He became aware that the other men had stopped talking and were now staring at him expectedly. As the silence drew on, the moment grew awkward and Thomas smiled thinly for lack of anything else to do.

After a beat – and an encouraging look from the doctor – Robert spoke, "It is good to see you awake, Barrow. Dr. Clarkson says you're coming along, and it pleases me to see that some of your colour has come back."

Thomas was sure it was just a blush from his early activities, but his smile became less strained at the earl's words.

"The house hasn't been quite the same without you!" Robert wanted to ensure that his under-butler knew that he had been missed. And it had not been a lie. His absence in the abbey was unusual, and he knew it was even more awkward downstairs, as Carson attempted to control the loss of two of the abbey's higher ranking servants. He also wanted to reassure the man when for so long he had remained with Dr. Clarkson without a single visitor.

Despite having talked this point over with his wife, he also felt uncomfortable with the knowledge that it had been under his instruction that they left Ludbrook's alone, during the storm. He tried to embue enthusiasm in his words to counteract his guilt.

"But that isn't to say you should rush back into your duties. Like I said to Bates, you must take as long as you need to recover. I don't want to see you back until you're ship-shape."

"I'm a… yes, uh, no," Thomas clenched his eyes as he felt crimson flush anew across his cheeks as he forced out the remainder of his sentence, "thank you."

When he opened his eyes, he looked anywhere but at his employer. Recently, the process of putting thoughts into speech had become difficult when he was as fatigued as he was now. It did not help that Lord Grantham's intimidating presence was looming so near, or that he could not stop himself from fixating on the words 'I don't want to see you'.

"Yes, well… Do rest up and get better. We're all thinking of you," Robert said after only a brief hesitation as he was saddened to see Thomas struggling with something so innate. Worry flared within the earl's belly as he remembered the doctor's cautionary words about Thomas prognosis. He chose not to dwell on the possibility that Thomas could be permanently changed from the accident; he would cross the bridge as he came to it, and he would figure out the best way to accommodate any difficulties as they arose – if they did at all, as the doctor seemed to be optimistic when he had been allowed to visit.

Robert could not help but feel for the younger man who, in his opinion, continued to be dealt poor cards in each of life's rounds. Precedent had set that he would help him no matter the outcome, so he was unsurprised to realise he had no doubt in keeping the man before him on staff even if his ill health prevailed. Perhaps not as under-butler, but they would find something.

Sensing that this meeting was as awkward for his employee as it was him, Robert made to leave.

"I'll let you rest, Barrow. Good afternoon," he nodded at both men before he turned to leave.

Once the two were left alone, Richard directed his attentions to Thomas and noticed his distress.

"You mustn't strain yourself; it will come with time," he spoke of the under-butler's speech, "As long as you continue to work diligently with Nurse Evans and myself as you have so far, I see you regaining full control of your faculties."

Thomas barely listened to the doctor as he continued to speak, for he did not care to hear any false platitudes. Dr. Clarkson saw his performance and knew it for the disgrace that it was. Surely, he was to expect word of his dismissal now that Lord Grantham knew of his state.

He had to shut his eyes against hot tears, as he realised he was to lose the closest thing he had to a home because of his inability to do anything. If he could have just muttered his words to the earl quickly, without faltering, he could have gotten away with it; but no – he was wrong again, he thought, because Lord Grantham's disappointment had been clear since the beginning, well before Thomas foolishly opened his mouth. Heat flared across his face in equal measures of despair and mortification over his rebelling body.

Dread coiled tightly in his chest and forged itself into a lead weight that anchored heavily in his heart. He flared his nostrils to take in more air, but he could not adjust to the burden now solidly pressing against his sternum. Soon his breaths came in involuntary, shaky gasps just to get more oxygen that his body so desperately needed. His throat felt thick and strained when he swallowed against spasms.

The outside world had become all but a pin-prick against an inky midnight sky, light-years away from him as his focus shifted entirely inwardly. Liquid hot shame pooled in his bowels as his mind echoed his interaction with the earl. Each repetition amplified his own maladies and exaggerated the earl's annoyance at his failures. Its molten flows renewed themselves as he recognised whatever gripped him now as another addition to his failures, but he could not restrain his body's reactions.

A warm hand against his arm made him realise just how cold and foreign his limbs had become – as the tempest had concentrated its fierce roil in the very centre of his being – and broke through his overwhelming panic.

"Thomas, you must get a hold of yourself. Breathe deeply, in… and out," Dr. Clarkson's voice directed.

Thomas did not dare to open his eyes, so to keep his tears from overflowing. Instead, he brought his hands up to his face to shield himself from view. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be in his own bed.

"I want home," he gasped miserably through his fingers, "to go home."

"I'm sorry, but we've been over this before. You can't go home until you're well."

Had they been over it before? Thomas had no memory of asking to leave the claustrophobic walls of Dr. Clarkson's practice. Inside was stifling compared to the easy sunshine that glowed beyond the windows, and he yearned to feel the cool, fresh air that flowed freely in the open spaces and rustled the leaves.

"Outside?"

"As I've said already, Nurse Evans will take you out when she thinks you're able."

Able: a word that Thomas has begun to loathe. At this rate, it was a miracle he could feed and shave himself.

"Before that can happen, you must calm your breathing."

For a moment after Dr. Clarkson's instruction, he could not draw in a single breath, wild or otherwise, and in the pinhole of his eye, he saw this moment as his last. Then instinct kicked in with a gasp and air rushed through his trachea and into his lungs in one great burst. He focused on his breathing and took a measured breath in, holding it, before he released the lungful slowly, deliberately dismantling the heavy pressure bearing down on his chest piece by piece. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal and his body felt weightless, alight and firing from its previous breakdown. He released his face and let his hands rest on the cot as he opened his damp eyes to the world.

"Sorry," he apologised for his hysteria, uncouth and unwanted, an alien entity that had dominated his better judgement.

"You're still healing," the doctor soothed, "and that can be a very emotional experience, but you mustn't let it get the best of you like that. Focus on your inhalations when you feel overwhelmed."

As Richard spoke these words, he began to unwind the dressing wrapped around Thomas' forehead. Cool air breathed over the warm, newly uncovered skin when he removed the last of the bandage. A purple bruise marred the left half of his brow, and its edges were mottled with hues of brown and yellow. Near his hairline, a long and jagged cut had been expertly sewn together.

"Your stitches are looking better – not as angry. We still have several days until they come out, but in the meantime, I think we can do away with the dressing."

Beside the bed, a tray equipped with all of the doctor's materials and tools had been placed without Thomas' notice, from which Clarkson picked up a thermometer and placed it in the under-butler's mouth. While waiting for the mercury to rise, Richard dabbed a cloth administered with salt water against the skin surrounding the stitches, and Thomas winced from the sting. When he was satisfied that it was clean, he then applied a treated cream around the cut.

After he wiped his hands against a clean cloth, he removed the thermometer from between Thomas' lips. He hummed contentedly at its readings.

Thomas lifted his hand to inspect his now free forehead. As the source of his headaches, he curious as to what had stayed hidden underneath the white cloth for so long, but the doctor intercepted his probing fingers.

"You mustn't touch. It would only encourage the spread of germs."

Thomas dropped his hand, chastised; he should have known that from his medical training during the war.

Dr. Clarkson released his hands and grasped the tray's edges. He turned to leave with his equipment.

"Perhaps tomorrow you can visit the courtyard with Nurse Evans," he offered.

Dr. Clarkson's words acted as a cleansing rite against his anguish, and it was as if his panic attack had never happened. The promise of leaving the room in which he had spent that past few days (and more) calmed him completely, and Thomas grinned unabashedly at the doctor's retreating figure.

* * *

Richard was unsurprised to find the earl waiting for him in his offices. He greeted the clearly agitated man standing uncomfortably, taking a seat behind his desk as he did so. The doctor gestured that Robert take a seat before him – an offer that he refused.

"When we spoke earlier you implied Thomas was well," Robert said hotly.

"I would say that _that_ ," he gestured restlessly towards the ward beyond the door, "is not entirely well."

Richard sighed briefly under the assault of the earl's unmistakable accusation and drew himself up in his chair.

"' _That_ " is a man who recently survived a not unsubstantial head trauma. Five days ago he was unconscious, and, though hopeful, I was not entirely convinced he would survive.

"Now, he's cognisant of himself and his surroundings, up moving, and communicating. I'd say he's doing very well," he concluded with a pointed look towards his visitor.

Robert held his gaze, not utterly convinced.

"I admit Thomas looks far better now than he did, but that was not communicating. He could barely follow what I was saying, and his speech…" he trailed off in distaste for speaking of such disabilities, unsure of what to label it.

"The nature of Thomas' injury is the cause of the language impairment that you saw today. All of the various functions of the body – like reflexes, movement, and speech to name a few – are delegated to different sections of the brain, and the trauma sustained in the crash has damaged the part responsible for communication. This makes it difficult for him to express speech fluently. But the damage is not extensive; It's a relatively mild form of dysphasia that I've discovered worsens whenever he is particularly fatigued or stressed."

He indulged in a look of remorse, "I allowed you to visit Thomas shortly after he had finished a particularly strenuous therapy with Nurse Evans. These sessions, in the past, have left him quite withdrawn and dull."

Robert's indignation deflated, and he finally took the offered seat across from the doctor. He conceded that the arrival of your boss when you're ill and exhausted would unlikely leave you feeling comfortable.

"Your unannounced presence, of course, is not to blame for his difficulties, but it does put them into perspective. When he's feeling rested and not put on the spot, he usually expresses himself much better. If he's had no time to think of what he's saying, it's as if there is no disturbance to his speech at all."

Richard placed his hands on the desk and clasped them together.

"I won't lie; Thomas is heading towards a very complicated road to recovery. I've become aware of a few impairments of his executive functions – er, or of his memory, his concentration, and his capacity to control emotions – that are a cause of some concern, but overall, Thomas is showing remarkable improvement since waking. Only rest will help heal the brain, but continued practise speaking and interacting with others will accelerate his recovery.

"I should very much doubt if any of his maladies are permanent."

"Well, that's a blessed relief," Lord Grantham declared.

"Indeed. And I expect he can return to Downton soon – though – just to rest, mind you, and then on to very limited duties from there. I cannot stress rest enough."

"Of course. I cannot begrudge the man that."

Richard nodded. He stared at the earl when Robert continued to sit and made no move to leave. The look on his face spoke of discomfort.

"Is there anything else, Lord Grantham?"

"No," he hesitated, "Well, yes. Maybe."

He sighed, at war with himself, unsure if he should broach the subject of his valet to the doctor.

"I have some _concern_ for Bates. He's been very… distant lately. I don't know what's wrong, and when I ask I can't get much more than a single word out of him," he shrugged, "he just seems so… discontent."

"I can't imagine that his ribs feel their best, but I can speak to him, if you feel it appropriate."

Robert shook his head, "No, no. He'd never hear of it."

The earl rose from his chair, pressing his hand forward to grasp the doctor's.

"Thank you. We'll arrange for when Thomas is to return to the abbey later."


	16. Reunions

Above Downton Abbey, the sun began its slow ascent, brightening the skies. Standing before the door to the servant's entrance, Thomas, however, was cast in shadows. He was contemplating why he was still standing on the wrong side of the door, heart fluttering as if he were daft maid, and not inside yet claiming his rightful place back. As he took a calming breath, he tried to remind himself that he had yearned for the abbey while he recovered in the ward by himself. His private room – with a bed infinitely more comfortable than the hospital's cot (a thought he would have never attributed to the wire framed slab of concrete it truly was) – and a place at the dining table with the others had been all that he had wanted. He inhaled slowly again, in attempts to steady his nerves; he wouldn't classify the tight pressure against his throat as panic quite yet, but if his heart spent anymore time thumping frenetically against his chest, he could very easily entertain his first reunion with a Downton staff member as their frantic attempts to rouse him from a dead-faint that levelled him to the courtyard floor.

Another deep breath and he physically shook himself from such thoughts. That would not happen; Doctor Clarkson would not have released him from his care if the doctor had not been confident that he could be trusted _not_ to pass out at the sight of his place of employment. He was being ridiculous, he decided, so Thomas squared his shoulders, wiped his clammy hands against his trousers, and grasped the doorknob.

Now across the abbey's threshold, Thomas' anxiety had cooled to a mild reticence. These familiar walls were built from history, some of which Thomas helped to carve; this was home, as much as it ever could be. If there was anywhere on Earth that he belonged, it was here.

At the sound of the voices reverberating within the labyrinthine corridors, another flutter of panic bubbled up. As much as the doctor believed in his continued good health, Thomas was fully aware of his own progress and was wary to see the others – and more importantly – be seen by them.

After the disastrous meeting with His Lordship, he had received a few additional visitors and well-wishers. Dr. Clarkson had always made sure they were never scheduled after any sort of therapy or exercise, and Thomas had thought that they went rather well, all things considered; he did not make a fool of himself like he had in front of his employer, as he ensured to speaking sparingly and slowly in order to avoid any mishaps. And his visitors' unease within a hospital overrode perhaps more scrutinous evaluations of his person. But these meetings had always been tightly monitored, in both number of visitors and the time for which they stayed; they had always been under his control, for no one wanted to over stay their welcome with him, especially when he was exhausted and clearly ill – a fact that did not bother Thomas. In fact, he welcomed this as an advantage when his headache flared or when his eye lids drooped while they spoke. As much as he felt relief in the walls of the abbey, he was reticent as walked further along. He gulped in anticipation, but he was here now; there was no turning back.

His arrival had been timed perfectly, for when he walked through the halls straight to the dining area the others were just starting to breakfast. He had no need to visit his room first, as he had left the hospital with just the clothes on his back and the one book Mrs. Hughes had been kind enough to lend him while he was recovering – not that he had read it, but now was as good as any to return it.

"Thomas!" Daisy called shrilly, while she delivered a plate of toast to the table. The maid had been the first to catch sight of him loitering in the doorway as she served. She made an abortive, flustered step towards him with her hands still full before she stopped herself with a grin.

The others rose from their seats with tentative smiles. Only the few who had visited Thomas at the doctor's practice had seen the damage done to the under-butler, so the vast majority of the servants were seeing his injury for the first time. At the sight of the large bruise they were left stricken. It was still quite apparent – spread out across his left brow and forehead – and its purplish hue had evolved into a revolting mixture of greens and yellows under tight skin. Near the hairline, the gash had healed into a bitter, puckered line of pink scar tissue; the stitches had been removed a few days before.

Their attentions made his mouth dry, for Thomas recognised their looks for what they were: revulsion. He had seen it reflected in the mirror whilst shaving the morning after Dr. Clarkson removed the bandages. He had been shocked to see such damage without any recollection of sustaining it and had sat staring in disgust for several minutes; it was as if one day it had just burst forth from his skin, leaving damage and pain in its wake. Even now, Thomas tried to avoid the siren's call of the mirror's image, as his reflected wound was disturbing yet irresistible. Thomas wished he could cover it with a bandage of sorts, but the doctor warned against it.

"Mr. Barrow," Mr. Carson intoned dourly, "I see you've let yourself in."

Thomas smiled a thin, polite smirk that aired on the side of a sneer, but he didn't let the butler's words worry him; he could appreciate the look of concern creasing the butler's face at odds with the man's tone. In fact, Thomas considered that the twinge of empathy would do the butler some good.

"Well don't cling to the jamb, Thomas, come in!" Mrs. Hughes called, gesturing towards the table and the empty seat next to her. Thomas was touched that they had kept it available, even though there had been no one to fill his position and they of course knew he was returning today.

Her invitation broke open the flood gates, and the other servants were quickly greeting the under-butler. They were still rather impressed by the head wound, but they made sure to welcome him warmly. In return, they were amazed to see Thomas openly smile as he walked into the room; some would say they were even a little apprehensive to see the under-butler so pleased, as in the past, that never bode well for any of them.

As Thomas seated himself, he caught Mr. Bates staring intently and quirked his brow when the other man quickly looked away. The valet had not greeted him like others, instead having stood in silence.

"You're feeling better now, eh, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy inquired brightly.

He had been one of the few who had visited the under-butler, faithful in his offer of friendship. He had accompanied Daisy on a shared half-day to the doctor's residence to deliver tarts baked by Mrs. Patmore. It had been an excruciatingly awkward moment to sit as a trio, munching on the flavourful treats while Daisy babbled nonsense to the injured – and largely disinterested – man, but Jimmy was satisfied in that it was time well served.

Since his visit, he noticed Thomas had begun to look a bit better. The dim light of the dining hall suited the under-butler more than the bright ward; the contrast between his pale skin and dark hair was not quite as drastic. His hair, loose without the use of his customary pomade, lent an impression of youth to the older man and softened the face that, even now, crinkled with pain.

Another wide grin split the under-butlers face, and Jimmy had to work not to startle at the unusual sight; the boyish grin, teeth gleaming, brightened his countenance, making Thomas look like a new man. The others were puzzled but soon found it infectious.

"I am, Ji—James," he nodded and accepted the bowl of porridge placed before him.

"My, I don't think I've ever seen you smile as much," Mrs. Hughes spoke of what was all on there minds, "Are you sure you're ready to come back?" She asked in jest as she accepted her book returned.

Thomas realised the tug of muscles at his mouth was indeed a smile, replacing his earlier nervousness.

"I think so, Mrs. Hughes. If not to work, to get away from that horrible cot," he admitted.

Thomas unknowingly brought an errant hand to massage his tender brow at the edge of his bruise as he spoke. In addition to the constant ache, the skin around his healing cut itched terribly.

"I should rather think so," Carson interjected, "Dr. Clarkson has informed His Lordship that you are not to return to your duties for a while yet."

Thomas nodded as he spooned porridge into his mouth – the texture familiarly lumpy – was one thing that he hadn't missed while away. He was not particularly upset about missing work yet, either.

He realised belatedly that he never considered how his absence had affected the operation of Downton, or how Carson had managed without his under-butler; he had been too involved with his own pains and anxieties. Now that he thought about it, he realised Carson would have had to have covered for two missing employees. At the hospital, when he had the wherewithal to ask, Dr. Clarkson had informed him of the accident that caused his own hospital stay and relayed how the valet had also been injured in the crash; Thomas still couldn't remember it clearly and the doctor had few details to offer. The under-butler figured he should ask Bates about the incident, but he had yet to decide whether or not approaching the insufferable man was worth enlightenment.

He was about to open his mouth to insinuate that Downton would have to continue to suffer without his expertise until he was fully well, when he sent a quick glance at the valet. The glimpse revealed the older man to be lost in his own bowl of porridge, shoulders hunched in agitation. Thomas looked across to Anna, who smiled tiredly in return. Was that normal – all thoughts of ribbing the butler lost – he had expected that the maddeningly level stare of the valet was as ever-present as the maid's bushy-eyed enthusiasm and both were absent. He shrugged it off – who was he to know the particulars of married life, specifically that marriage above another. He shuddered to delve too deeply in their _personal_ affairs.

As his mind wandered, his previous thoughts of Carson and his own job loosened, and Thomas was content to let the idle chatter between the other servants flow easily uninterrupted. He was relieved that he hadn't needed to interject too often. Unbeknownst to Thomas, the others had been warned not to over stimulate the under-butler on his first day, under strict orders from Dr. Clarkson and Lord Grantham.

After breakfast concluded, Thomas had a moment to enjoy a smoke with a cup of tea at the table and decompress. As he inspected the room around him and let the boredom sink in, he heard footsteps descend the stairs. It was the butler.

"Ah, Thomas. His Lordship would like to see you now." Mr. Carson said.

The smoke soured in his throat at the thought, and he hoped his trepidation didn't show openly on his face. He hadn't seen the earl since the monumental cock up that was their fist meeting at the hospital.

"Me?" He asked uncertainly.

"Unless there is another Mr. Barrow under his employ that I am not aware of, then yes, you," Carson mused, "He'd like to see you in the library."

Thomas nodded quickly and stubbed the remaining cigarette out hastily. His meal sat heavy in his stomach as he took the stairs, mouth dry in anticipation. At the top, he stopped in alarm.

He didn't know where he was going.

Thomas blinked a few times at this development, before the weight of his problem settled as a churning mass in his stomach. He should know the route to the library like the back of his hand, but he could not envision the path. Was he to take the corridor through the hall and then to the right? Or was it the left? And which door? He couldn't very well try all of them until he got it right.

He clenched his eyes together, bringing to the forefront of his mind the image of the library. He could picture the room perfectly, but he couldn't retrace his way out of it and to where he was standing now. He urged his brain turn over its hurdle and work like it was supposed to – he had naïvely allowed his performance at breakfast to imply that he had left sluggish thinking behind.

At the sound of soft footsteps on plush carpet approaching, he tried to cap the worry that was threatening to spill over.

"Thomas!" It was Branson, "Sorry, Mr. Barrow!"

Thomas corrected his posture and nodded at the man, "Mr. Branson."

"I heard you were back. You're looking very well, except for.." his eyes skipped over Thomas' forehead, "How are you feeling?"

"Uh, fine, sir," he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

The two stared at each awkwardly as Thomas tried not to panic.

"Well, I should get back," Tom angled a thumb behind him and made to step away, "I'm glad you're doing well."

Thomas watched the man walk away and finally saw him as the blessing that he was, if he could just swallow his pride.

"Uh, Mr. Branson?"

When Tom stopped and turned, Thomas continued mildly, "The library? It's…"

For a beat Branson stared at the under-butler and Thomas cursed his mistake in asking.

"The second door on the left," he said with a grin and continued on his way.

He heaved a sigh of relief and walked as closely to a run as he could, nearly forgetting to knock at the jamb when he arrived. At the earl's welcoming words, he strode into the room – back straight and head high – as if he had not just been lost in a building that he had worked in for the better part of ten years.

"Barrow!" Robert stood from his seat, and strode towards the under-butler so quickly that Thomas nearly flinched. But the man stopped a respectable distance away and merely smiled, hand outstretched.

He accepted the offered hand and shook it.

The earl's grin twisted as he inspected Thomas' forehead, making him incredibly self-conscious of the bare skin.

"That looks dreadful. Are you in pain?"

"No, Your Lordship," Thomas said hollowly, still reeling from his misstep in the corridor and the earl's overtly friendly manner.

He shook his head at his blatant lie and corrected himself, "Well, yes, in headaches m'lord, but Dr. Clarkson has given me a tincture to use. Thank you for that, m'lord." Thomas had been informed that Lord Grantham had paid for the cost of all of his care, including the medications he was still using.

"You seem a bit stunned. I hope you understand to not to push yourself to far," Robert instructed, remembering his own conversation with the doctor. He meant to follow his directives closely to ensure his under-butler the best recovery. Despite the wound and slight dazed look about him, Robert was pleased to hear Thomas sound well.

"Of course, m'lord. I will." Thomas knew he wouldn't be working, especially anywhere upstairs until his cut closed and his bruise diminished – even if he felt tip-top.

Robert nodded, "Good. I don't want you straining yourself. You gave us quite a fright.

"Have you seen Bates since you've returned?"

"Not exactly, Your Lordship. Just briefly at breakfast." This seemed to disappoint the earl, and Thomas nearly frowned in response. Of course Lord Grantham would be preoccupied with the valet.

"Ah, well. You'll encounter each other soon enough."

Robert had hoped to see how Thomas spoke of the valet, to see if there were any insights the younger man could offer on the valet's unusual behaviour.

"Yes, well, I'm delighted to see you back at Downton, but I won't take up any more of your time."

"Thank you, m'lord. You've been very kind," Thomas nodded and left the room.

He sagged in relief against the wall outside of the confines of the library. He counted his blessings there had been no stammering or confused speech. Straightening, he reckoned he had earned a nap, and headed towards his room.

* * *

The next afternoon, Thomas was he was sitting at the servant's dining hall alone. He had quickly tired of his bedroom, a space even more solitary and gloomy than the hospital, so he had moved to the communal area with a book. Not long after sitting down, Daisy appeared with a small plate of shortbreads and a cup of tea for Thomas. She set the offerings down with a slight grin before running back to the kitchen, explaining she was ever so busy with dinner.

The tea was strong, and the shortbread buttery, but the refreshments did little to improve his mood, which had drastically soured after Thomas spent the better part of an hour pouring over the text before him with little success. His attention had been pulled every which way _except_ towards the words on the page, as he struggled to concentrate on the story and not the sounds of the kitchen or movements in the hall. When he did focus long enough to follow several sentences in a row, the progression of the narrative halted as he faltered over individual words. Thomas knew he should understand their symbols and the sounds they signified, but they looked foreign and tumbled awkwardly in his mouth as he tested their pronunciation. The process left him frustrated and dull, his head aching.

He was so engrossed in his own failure, that he didn't notice Jimmy approach the table. Thomas was hunched over his book. His face was screwed up in concentration, as his finger followed the line of type slowly across the page. Occasionally, his progress from left to right would stop and his lips would move silently as they mouthed the problematic word or phrase until he had it right. Jimmy watched the slight movements of his lips in curiosity before making his presence known.

"What are you reading?" Jimmy asked, startling Thomas from his novel.

Thomas harrumphed in response when he was collected enough to reply.

"I'm not riding," he paused and enunciated, "No. I'm not _reading_ anything at… this r-rage. Ugh – _rate_. _Rate_ ," he stressed.

A vibrant blush graced his cheeks, utterly mortified. He ducked his head to escape the younger man; he would have rather have been struck mute than to speak like a dullard in front of Jimmy.

"Sorry," Thomas stuttered, "It's just… _hard_ to concentrate with," he gestured at his head, "I don't know why I bother."

A fresh flare of abject embarrassment seared throughout his body when a quick glance towards Jimmy revealed a pained expression, and Thomas blinked against a flood of tears that suddenly threatened to spill over.

"Here," Jimmy stated evenly, stretching for the book.

With trepidation, Thomas handed it over. He thought he would rather like it if the younger man would read to him again, but Jimmy merely inspected the cover and leafed through the pages.

"Never heard of it," he said with a shrug, sliding the book back across the table into Thomas' hands.

"I should probably go. Can't let Carson know I'm down here," he grinned as he snagged a shortbread from the plate.

The footman swivelled and left as quickly as he came, leaving Thomas utterly confused; he supposed that didn't go as poorly as it could have – Jimmy didn't look totally repulsed at his ineptitude, and technically Thomas hadn't spilt any tears in front of him. Thomas still felt the flush of humiliation pulse through his body when he thought of what could have been. His body felt foreign and clumsy in that way when he became entirely self-conscious of himself as a person in time and space. Nibbling at a piece of shortbread, Thomas wished he could sort out the footman and his behaviour, but if only his head would just stop pounding first.

The headache only continued to worsen throughout the day, and by supper it had evolved into an oppressive throbbing that left Thomas feeling feeble, nerves and tendons taut in distress. Pain pulsed electrically in his head – trapped – intensifying as the pain ricocheted with each beat against the skull. As he made his way to the table, his eyes were practically shut against the strain. He bonelessly dropped into his seat and let his body sag under his head's drubbing. The others looked at him in concern. The smiling man from the previous day had disappeared and been replaced with one who looked pinched and utterly drained.

"Are you all right, Thomas?" Mrs. Hughes asked, considering sending him back to his room. The man's pallor had dipped alarmingly pale since she had last seen him – his lips dark crimson smears on alabaster skin.

"Yeah," he responded tiredly. For once, he was allowed his careless response.

Thomas drifted through supper under the thick haze of pain, keeping mostly to himself, eyes trained on his plate.

As he pushed the uninspired meat pie listlessly across his plate, he became aware of the heavy pressure of eyes on him. He looked up – self-conscious and irritated at himself for being so – and caught Bates shift his eyes away. This was becoming a theme with the valet, as he had yet to hold his gaze – or even speak with him – since he had returned. Disgruntled, he sneered at John and turned back to his plate. When he noticed for the third time that Thomas found the valet to be staring, Thomas finally snapped; he had had enough of being looked at like a spectacle while he suffered so.

" _What_ are you looking at?"

The chatted around the table stilled at Thomas' icy tone. Everyone's heads swivelled to follow his gaze towards the valet.

John, for once keeping his eyes trained on Thomas, muttered quietly, "Nothing."

At his right, his wife frowned.

"Well, if it's nnno—," Thomas clamped his lips into a terse line as he interrupted himself at his own stutter before he could mangle the sentence – and his pride – any further. Instead, he chose to lob a searing glower that could not be misinterpreted. His body was so full of anger that he had no room left to feel humiliation over his stammer, and rage unlike anything he had known before began to pressurise until it crystallised into a jagged point, aimed directly at John.

Thomas clenched at his head and blinked heavily as a sharp pain pierced into his skull, threatening to cleave his head in two; it afflicted him suddenly, and his chest heaved at his mental distress. When his eyes cleared and looked up, he saw the retreating back of the valet clearing the room as quickly as his lumbered steps would allow, his seat still vibrating from his violent discharge from its surface.

"John?!" Anna called, looking back at Thomas in confusion, before running after the valet.

Thomas bowed his head, massaging his brow, and awaited the scolding he would receive for upsetting the downstairs' prince. When it didn't come, he lifted his head and surveyed the table in bewilderment and found that few were stricken with shock; rather, they exuded varying degrees of unease and exasperation.

"Well, I can't say I'm shocked by the tenacity with which Mr. Bates has clung to his choleric," Mr. Hughes said, far too lightly for Thomas' liking, "but I can say I've had my full of it."

Mr. Carson agreed with a clunky nod, "Mr. Barrow's lack of manners notwithstanding, there is no room for that audacious disregard for civility at the table."

There was the butler he had expected, as he watched Carson look towards the others seated at the table, taking the exchange as an example of study for proper behaviour of a servant.

Mrs. Hughes looked to the confused under-butler, "You'll have to excuse Mr. Bates. He's not been himself since your accident."

Carson scoffed, "That's putting lightly his behaviour, Mrs. Hughes. It's a wonder His Lordship hasn't said anything yet."

Thomas was intrigued by the sudden turn against the valet, but to his distress, his current agony dampened any enjoyment he could have at Bates' expense. He wanted – no needed – the oblivion of sleep.

"May I be excused, please?" He asked meekly.

"Yes, you may," Carson allowed, "The supper will somehow carry on without the three of you."

Thomas barely blinked at the affront as he pushed himself out of the chair and trudged towards the refuge of his room, where the vial of pain reliever was stashed.

* * *

"John," Anna called, "John, please wait!"

He had kept his steady march towards the courtyard door despite her calls, and refused to answer her. A maelstrom of warring emotions was currently struggling within him, leaving tense and unbalanced. On one hand, John had been so relieved to see the under-butler returned; so much so that, once seated across from him, John had to look at him, yet anytime he met his gaze, John thought of the bright blue eyes of his nightmares. He had felt anxious, for every wince and every tick that the under-butler failed to hide, John assumed the worst. Images of Thomas delirious and covered in blood overlaid with the picture of the under-butler clutching his head in pain at the table – the wrath underlying Thomas' stuttering words at the table were terribly reminiscent of their arguments in the ravine. He felt nauseous, as the panic and fear he had felt alone in the wilderness crested and overwhelmed him – with them, the anger at himself – as if he was back, stranded. It had all became too much – hard to breathe under the strain – and John had to leave.

As John burst forth from the abbey and into the courtyard, Anna pushed through the closing door behind him and clasped her hand around his arm, tugging him to a halt.

She looked at him in amazement, "What was that?"

"Please just let me alone, Anna."

"We've tried it your way already, and look where that's gotten us," she shook her head, "No. Tell me what's going on."

John shook his head.

"I—I'm trying to understand, but if you keep avoiding me I can't help."

"Anna, I don't want your help."

"That's not true. Husband and wife, for better _or_ for worst – I'm supposed to help you when you're—"

"What? When I'm worst? Thank you, Anna, but I think I can manage on my own."

"That's not— I didn't say that," she shook her head, "Why are you being like this?"

John sighed. He honestly didn't know

"I can't see you this… unhappy anymore. You're snapping at everyone. And for once Thomas didn't deserve it – he looked ready to faint – you've been giving him the eye since he came back for no reason a'tall."

He scoffed. He had not; it was just looking – there was no cruelty behind it.

"You were so sensitive about Thomas before," the gears shifting in her mind, "Why—is that it? Has Thomas said something to you?"

"No! No,"

"Then what is it?" Her voice was pitched a desperate tenor.

He wanted so desperately to share everything that he had thought, what he was thinking, and what he was ever _going_ to think about this, but he couldn't. There was something – a physical barrier – that stilled his tongue and closed his heart, calcifying both muscles until they were unable to act. It was like some integral part of him necessary to share was missing – perhaps left in that damned ravine.

He edged out, "It's me. I—"

Anna just looked confused, and John regretted forcing himself to speak.

"Never mind."

Anna's face soured. "Fine, fine," she said almost to herself, "I'm going back inside. Stay out here and console yourself."

John watched her rip out the door and leave but made no attempt to follow her.


	17. Try, Tried, Trying

John continued through the rest of the evening in a daze, worried as he was about Anna's reaction in the courtyard. He dressed His Lordship reflexively, paying little attention to the fabrics and cuts of the pieces he chose – a testament to his skill and experience as a valet when Lord Grantham didn't exit his rooms dressed ridiculously.

That was the first time that Anna had left during one of their rows. Often, it was he who would evade her emotional and physical ambushes. Now that the roles had been turned, he wasn't sure if he liked it; it felt like falling. But this is what he wanted. He wanted to be left alone, so he did not need to express in words – and making them reality – his anxieties, failures, and fears. Nevertheless, he had never meant to hurt Anna and he was doing exactly that as he pushed her away.

So, his behaviour was unacceptable; that wasn't new to him. He was sickened by the thought that he pushed those who cared about him away. He was disturbed by the thoughts that plagued him when he saw Thomas drift through the halls. He was tired of being under assault of surreal nightmares – not just because they stole from him hours of duly needed sleep – but because they were based on emotions and ideas that had some truth to them. He was drained and ashamed at just how poorly he was managing it.

He decided couldn't let this affect the others – Anna – any longer. He had to seize a tighter control over his emotions, letting not even a dribble of despair escape. If his presence upset the others, then he would avoid them altogether. He would remove himself from any situation that revealed him to be the twisted man he felt he was, and whatever he did, he would avoid Thomas completely. And with Anna, he would be gentle – trying to be the loving husband she deserved.

And this became his strategy for the upcoming weeks, choosing to avoid the others so he couldn't disappoint them.

While John had his epiphany, Thomas was slowly healing, the bruise evolving in hue until it began to abate, a mottling of yellows growing smaller each day. The gash, still obvious, was washing out into a paler pink. The pinched look at his eyes disappeared most days, though his head still ached from time to time, and his difficulties with speech had all but stopped. Only when he was particularly tired, or his head flared in an unusual pang, did his tongue trip over itself as his mind failed to provide the correct words.

It was with great relief that Carson finally allowed Thomas back to his duties. While his forehead was still marred with the evidence of his accident, he found if he parted his hair and swept it to the left – similar to his hairstyle before the war – he could cover the scar and most of the discolouration. The style helped ease his embarrassment to be seen wounded, even if the injury had stopped being new and enticing to those servants who had a penchant for staring rudely. The butler still requested he did little upstairs during the day, in case the ladies saw him; however, Thomas began to fulfill his duties as under-butler within the confines of the basement as normal. At first, it was terrifying, but it was better than the restless boredom Thomas had felt as he recovered.

One afternoon, he was on his way upstairs for the first time in a while; His Lordship had asked Carson to inform Thomas that his presence was required in the library. The butler had little information to pass on, so Thomas abandoned his work in the wine cellar and walked swiftly through the halls. A familiar voice called from behind.

"Mr. Barrow! Can I ask something of you?"

Thomas halted his step and turned to face Jimmy, "If it's quick, yes. I'm about to go see Lord Grantham."

Jimmy shook his head, "Oh, it's just about the knife sharpener. It can wait, I suppose."

"The knife sharpener?" Thomas shook his head as the blonde nodded, "No, show me, I'll help you now."

He remembered using the machine when he was second footman, and even after all the years that had past, he still looked back on that task with contempt. The machine was a fussy instrument, and, if used incorrectly, frustrating to repair. Unfortunately, he spoke from experience, and by the time he passed the delightful task on to William, Thomas knew the innards of the machines very intimately. This was why he figured it was best to tackle Jimmy's problem now, rather than later. His Lordship could wait a few minutes.

Thomas followed the footman through the halls into the scullery room where the machine was kept. It was a short and shallow oak cylinder set atop cast iron legs, with an iron crank lever protruding from its focus on the front of the drum. A gilt brass shield for the Kent Company[1] had been plated above the lever, near the top edge of the face. Its emblem presented a clock face between a watchful lion and a fanciful unicorn on either side, heralding the company's inscription "Time and Labour Saved". The top had five holes for which to place various kinds of knives in need of sharpening, and they were joined by a sixth hole whose chute was used to pour an abrasive powder into the cavity of the drum. The powder would work with a set of brushes affixed to wooden wheels inside the cylinder that rotated at the turn of the level, cleaning and sharpening the five knives placed in the holes.

On a counter to the left of the machine, laid a pile of rusted knives Jimmy had assembled.

"So what's the problem?" While it was a finicky machine if used wrongly, it was a relatively straight forward process; you put the knives in the top, poured in the powder, and turned – hence time and labour served. He had imagined walking into the room and finding it jammed, but Jimmy, bless his beautiful, blonde head, had not placed a single knife in it yet.

"It's just that… I don't really understand the idea of it. How am I supposed to…" he trailed off.

"How have you never done this before?" Thomas asked in exasperation.

Jimmy shrugged, "Alfred's always done it."

And now Alfred was busy serving tea upstairs to Lord Grantham, unable to lend a hand to a task that he had no business doing. Mrs. Patmore must have demanded the knives to be sharpened immediately; otherwise, Thomas assumed Jimmy would have waited until the first footman returned.

Thomas stared at him for a beat, "Why? He's first footman."

This was no job for the first footman, as loathe as he was to advocate for Alfred. He knew if William tried to make him sharpen the knives whilst he was first footman, there would have been words said. Well, more words than usual.

"I don't know. I ask, and he does it. He seems to like it well enough."

"So I guess you're not related to this side of the family then," Thomas pointed at the crest with a smirk.

Jimmy pursed his lips and shook his head. The twist of the younger man's lips sent an electric twinge through his stomach. He ignored it in favour of addressing the lesson in sharpening.

"All right," Thomas made a grab for a knife, "This is what you do," he looked properly at the blade, "Well, for one thing you make sure your knife is always clear of grease before you put it in the machine."

"Why?"

"'Cause it clogs the brushes and ruins the mechanics, and then you'll have to take the bloody thing a part it to clean it and replace the brushes. It really only rids the knife of rust, not dirt."

Jimmy nodded, looking at the many knives that were still slightly dirty, "I just thought, 'cause it was cleaning it…"

Thomas shook his head, "No. Clean them first, then dry them well – don't get any moisture inside or you'll have to take it all a part then too."

The under-butler approached the drum and pointed to its parts as he spoke, "So when they're good and clean, yeah? You'll put the knives in these openings, and you'll pour the emery into this chute – a good amount, mind but not enough to block the wheels. Then turn the handle for a while, till they're clean."

"That's it?"

"Essentially. Think you can manage?" Thomas stopped himself when he heard the cruel edge to his words. Jimmy was trying to be his friend; he had visited him at hospital, although rather clumsily, and turned a blind eye to Thomas' occasional difficulties. The least Thomas could do was return the favour when he was in need of help.

He started again, softer, "You ought not to ask Alfred for help anymore. That's no way to convince Mr. Carson you're to be first footman again."

The younger man nodded, and Thomas turned to leave, less confidant in the boy's abilities than when he had started – one only needed to apply oneself when problem solving – but ultimately his fondness for the younger man was unchanged. Thomas still felt longing for the footman, feeling light anytime Jimmy elected to demonstrate their friendship, but he tried not to lose himself in hope (again) at these overtures. As he exited the room, he walked down the hallway, his thoughts on Jimmy. He avoided the staircase, and moving towards the wine cellar, His Lordship long forgotten.

As Thomas walked towards the cellar, he passed the lady's maid in the hallway with a cordial nod. Anna was walking toward Mrs. Hughes' office to ask her much needed advice while she had a moment away from attending Mary. In her worry, she barely spared Thomas a glance. When the head housekeeper opened her door, she was not surprised to see Anna standing before her.

"Anna, what can I do for you?" she asked, though she was sure she knew the answer.

"Mrs. Hughes, I think I need your help," Anna admitted.

"Why don't you come in, dear, and we can discuss this in private," Mrs. Hughes gestured towards her chairs and table. The two women settled in their seats opposite to each other, and Mrs. Hughes looked expectantly at the lady's maid.

"Is this about Mr. Bates?"

Anna nodded.

"Anna, I thought you'd have visited me sooner, and I'm sorry for not coming to you," Mrs. Hughes said, "I've been distracted, but that's no excuse."

Anna looked small and tired in her seat across from the head housekeeper, who felt regretful for not having spoken with the lady's maid until now.

"It's not your responsibility, Mrs. Hughes. I thought that we could handle this alone."

"I'm very sorry indeed, then – of course this is my responsibility. When a member of staff is this distraught, it's my business, and the two of you are so obviously troubled," she shook her head.

Anna stared into her clasped hands resting on her lap. Mrs. Hughes allowed her a moment to consider her words.

Eventually, she spoke, "Sometimes I think I'm living with a stranger – that it was someone else who returned from the accident. I can tell he's just so sad… and angry even when he tries not to be... I don't know what to do."

"I don't know what to say, Anna. I thought perhaps giving him time would help to heal whatever is ailing him, but that doesn't seem to be the case. If anything he's getting more difficult."

"I've never seen him like this," Anna admitted, "And he won't have nothing to do with me most of the time."

The older woman sent a sympathetic look across the table, "It can't be as bad as all that. I know he still loves you."

Anna's lip began to tremble as she fought back tears, nodding. Mrs. Hughes grasped her hand within her own.

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out – I'll speak with Mr. Carson, like I've been meaning to, and we'll see what we can do.

"And in the meantime," she suggested, "perhaps you can speak with Thomas."

"Thomas." Anna repeated, clearly uninterested in speaking with the under-butler. While he had not been overtly unkind since he had been back, she could not forgive the history between them all; they were civil with each other, helpful when their responsibilities overlapped, but they were not friends.

"They've both survived the same thing, after all. And, but for being a tad more mercurial and distracted, Thomas is largely the same old Thomas we've known all along."

The women shared a loaded look before breaking into matching grins.

"Perhaps not the same old Thomas, thank Heavens. He's not quite as contrary as he once was," Mrs. Hughes smiled, "but I still think he might be able to speak with Mr. Bates."

"I'll try," Anna promised doubtfully, "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Sometimes it feels like I'm alone against it all."

"Never think that."

Mrs. Hughes rose from her seat as the lady's maid left the office, watching her retreating back. She made a note to speak with the butler about the issues amongst the staff. As Anna left the head housekeeper's office, it dawned on her the task that lay before her; she would have to strategise when she chose to confront the under-butler.

Later that afternoon, Mr. Carson joined Thomas in the wine cellar. The under-butler had been stirring the cask that held the batch of wine that he was currently fining; in a few days it would be ready to filter and then bottle. Thomas enjoyed a moment of pride when Carson didn't spare him a suspicious glance before he moved towards the desk to pick up his ledger.

"Was everything all right with His Lordship?" Carson asked.

"His Lordshi…" Thomas turned towards the butler and trailed off as the realisation that he had never visited with the earl as he had intended – as he had been asked to. He had forgotten His Lordship. His stomach dropped out and his eyes widen in alarm.

He barely heard the butler utter an disbelieving, "You didn't"

A pained look grace Thomas' face as he attempted to justify himself, "James needed—"

"And so you thought the needs of a footmen surpassed the needs of the Earl of Grantham."

He shook his head no. He would never be that dull; it was only that he forgot that Lord Grantham had ever requested his presence. All of his attention had shifted to helping instructing Jimmy on the proper use of the Kent's Machine. His focus had narrowed to that task as all other thoughts disappeared – including the earl's request.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Thomas didn't need to be told twice, and abandoned the cask, racing up the stairs two at a time. When he reached the sitting room, he took a moment to calm his breathing and smooth his hair into place. He knocked on the door and waited until Alfred opened it for him, barely sparing a glance for the first footman.

"Barrow! Good of you to show," Robert called from his place on the couch.

"Your Lordship," Thomas started, "Please allow me t—"

"My pocket watch has seemed to have stopped working."

Thomas stood stock still for a moment to process the earl's words first as language, then as a message with content to impart. The earl was not angry. In fact, it was likely he had not even noticed Thomas was late. He had barely spared a glance for the under-butler, instead electing to look at the gold pocket watch as it dangled from chain he held.

"I was hoping that you could see if you could take a look at it; I'd ask Bates, but he's never been any good with the watch's finer workings."

Probably due to his fat hands, Thomas thought uncharitably, as he took the proffered watch from the earl.

"Of course, m'lord."

He would take time in the evening after the dinner service to take the watch a part and examine its gears. Thomas looked forward to it. He just hoped, beyond measure, that once dismantled, he could fit all together again.

That evening, Thomas had been too tired to look at the earl's watch and had gone to bed as soon as his duties allowed; he didn't even accompany the others at the table while they unwound from the day, chatting and playing cards, and he was the first of the servants to fall asleep that night, nodding off as soon as his head hit the pillow. The next morning, he rose early in preparation of the day's schedule. Thomas was still getting used to his tasks and responsibilities as under-butler after such a long hiatus, and he found he needed to make a conscious effort to prepare himself each day – his mind particularly foggy after a night of rest. He was glad – grateful – that he was there, able to perform his duties at all, but it still was exhausting, especially when a low lying buzz of paranoia warned him against making mistakes. As he applied a treated cream against his mottled forehead, Thomas shook himself from such thoughts and focused instead on his tasks of the day.

One such task was preparing the south hall for a spring cleaning of sorts. It was a rarely used wing of the abbey that Thomas knew needed a solid dusting and tidying from a winter's worth of stale air. He took it upon himself to place this chore on the agenda, as it would eventually be placed under his management anyways. Thomas thought it prudent to get a handle on the task now, while the abbey wasn't currently hosting any guests, so he planned to instruct Alfred and Jimmy to help; later, he would let Mrs. Hughes know that her maids could aid in the cleaning.

After breakfast, while the servants were rushing to start their tasks, Thomas pulled the two footman aside, so that he could speak with them privately.

"When you two have a moment, I'll need you to go to the south hall. I want to get a start on spring cleaning. Can you open all of the windows to get started? Then tomorrow, I'll have you move the furniture for the maids so they can give it a good dusting."

The two younger men nodded, and Thomas walked away, not noticing a peculiar gleam in Jimmy's eye.

Later that afternoon, Alfred was frantically looking for Jimmy all throughout the downstairs of the abbey. A break in their duties finally permitted the time to approach the south hall; only, the second footman was no where to be seen, and Alfred could not complete the task on his own, and the maids would enter the wing the following day to musty rooms – a chain of events that caused a tickle of anxiety for Alfred. He had just about given up his wild goose chase, when Alfred thought to check the courtyard. Upon opening the door, he saw Jimmy lounging on the bench, legs stretched out and lax before him, eyes shut and turned towards the sky.

"Jimmy? What are you doin'?" he exclaimed, "I've been lookin' all over for ya."

The blonde barely stirred.

"I'm enjoyin' the sunshine," he replied, absorbing the rays, "What does it look like?"

"Mr. Barrow will have your head! We're to be openin' windows."

Jimmy cracked open an eye to look at Alfred, "Are we, though?"

The first footman nearly fell over in shock and quickly took a seat next to Jimmy.

"Are you mad? 'Course we are. You heard 'm, didn't you?"

At this, Jimmy finally straightened out and looked at the ginger-haired boy.

"Yes, but you know what he's like now," he tapped a finger against his temple, "maybe he just 'forgot' to tell us, eh? I'd wager he'd 'ave forgotten to tell anyone else we were to do it too, so when he complains and Carson finds out, we can say he never told us."

Jimmy began to smile and his eyes twinkled at his own ingenuity, "Two against one. And his head the way it is, no one'll think twice – just chalk it off as Mr. Barrow forgettin' again."

Jimmy felt a small niggle of guilt about his plan, as it would ultimately put Mr. Barrow under Mr. Carson's crosshairs; however, the butler had been considerably tolerant of Thomas' difficulties – a trait Jimmy was certain had been enforced upon him by Lord Grantham – and so the misstep wouldn't be that large of a problem. The under-butler would get a mild reprimand and continue on his day as per normal. All would be right in the world, and Jimmy and Alfred could get a bit of a break.

"Oh," Alfred drew out with a knowing smile, but then thought better of it, "But then Carson'll be at us and we'd still have to do it – only later."

"Sure, but by then the sun will be gone. This way, we get a break – for a little while anyways, whilst the sun is out. Christ, Alfred, just sit awhile and enjoy it. Lord knows you need a bit of sun."

Alfred sat still before hesitantly relaxing into his spot on the bench.

"All right, but only for a moment."

As the two footmen relaxed in the rare sunshine, unbeknownst to them, Thomas stood in the doorway. He had left his own duties to take a quick smoke break but had halted at the door left ajar when he heard Alfred say his name. Old habits died hard, and he stayed hidden behind the door in order to eavesdrop. He was glad he did, as he had overhead their entire exchange. So Jimmy was as devious as he was handsome, Thomas thought. Thomas had to confess, Jimmy's plan would have been successful had Thomas not chosen that moment to smoke, as he had neglected to tell anyone of his plans for the footmen. Mr. Carson would have had no trouble believing Thomas' absentmindedness had reared its head again if the footman both feigned ignorance.

This was the last thing he needed. Thomas' chagrin quickly forged into a pointed indignation that demanded retribution. With narrowed eyes, he abandoned his smoke and turned towards Carson' office. If Jimmy thought he was so clever, wait until he realised what he was capable of.

As the afternoon drew on, and after the footmen had returned from their break in the sun, Alfredd and Jimmy were called into Carson's office. He sat behind his desk with a severe look on his face.

"Jimmy, Alfred," Carson called, "will you please tell me why the south hall has yet to be attended?"

The two footmen straightened their postures and tried to affix convincing masks of innocence to their faces.

"The south hall, Mr. Carson?" Jimmy repeated. Beside him, Alfred stayed silent and tried not to wince under the butler's heavy stare.

"Yes. I'm glad you can pronounce it, James, but what I'm asking of you is if you've been there."

Jimmy shook his head, "We haven't, sir. We weren't asked to?"

Had Carson not known he was lying, he would have believed Jimmy; he affected sincerity well.

"You weren't asked to," Carson repeated flatly.

"No," Jimmy said, Alfred still refusing to speak.

"Then what would you call Mr. Barrow's request this afternoon?"

The footmen paled and spluttered at Carson's words. Alfred quickly turned to his companion with a glare, while Jimmy opened and closed his mouth several times before deciding that closed was to be the best option.

"As I thought," Carson commented dryly, "Then go to it now, and forget about your half days this week. I want all the silver polished until I can see myself in it."

The two younger men nodded hastily before rushing off towards the stairs. Mr. Carson followed them out of them at a much slower pace and turned for the dining room, where he knew Thomas was sitting. He stood at the doorway, forgoing any greeting to the younger man.

"I've spoken with Alfred and James. Next time, I expect you to deal with such insolent behaviour."

Thomas nodded from his seat at the table, "Of course, Mr. Carson. Thank you, sir."

"It is your responsibility, as acting under-butler – and butler if you wish to transfer to another household – to address such insubordination at the start. Otherwise, it can spread and transform into something altogether unsavoury." Carson spoke as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth, and his glare lingered on the under-butler for a moment too long. Thomas chose to ignore the obvious remark on his own history at Downton, especially the suggestion to find another household.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Thomas said. Even with having to withstand Carson's 'lesson', it was with extreme satisfaction that Jimmy and Alfred were caught in their lies, "I'll keep that in mind."

After the most of the day's duties had been completed, Thomas retired to the servant's dining room. He had gone down with the intention to finally look at Lord Grantham's watch and had brought it with his tool kit to the table. As he set to his task, the sounds of the footmen's idle chatter over a card game flowed easily and became a comforting background noise as he lost himself within the mechanics of the small machine. Although they had tried to give him trouble earlier on in the day, he felt generous, and enjoyed sitting with them, seeing the blonde smiling when Thomas looked up from his tinkering.

In the hall, Anna took a moment to steel herself outside of the servant's dining room, knowing that Thomas was currently inside. She had decided that tonight she would speak with the under-butler about her husband, and she knew, judging from past experiences, Thomas was not going to be accommodating. Mouth set to a grim line, she walked in and spotted him fiddling with a small pocket watch. She marvelled at his ability to handle such small tools and parts while still managing to puff away at a cigarette balanced between two fingers. The smoke clung to him and shrouded him in a hazy setting, making her task that much more intimidating. She walked in despite her misgivings and stopped at his side.

"Thomas, can I ask you something?" Anna asked.

He lifted his brow, eyes still on the watch, and nodded to encourage her to speak. She looked briefly towards the boys playing cards before speaking again.

"In private?"

He turned and searched her face openly, not considering her request to be serious as the two rarely spoke within the company of others. Talking alone was rather unappealing. When her face revealed to be earnest, he sighed harrowingly, and enjoyed the look of irritation that Anna tried to conceal.

He looked at the footmen, who had been glancing at their exchange, and said, "Sorry, lads. As the lady says, and all."

He stood from the table and made for the door, smoking cigarette still in hand, "We'll go to Mr. Carson's room, yeah? That private enough for you, Mrs. Bates?"

She rolled her eyes behind his back as she followed him to the butler's office, careful to close the door behind her. Thomas arched an eyebrow at her bold actions but said nothing. He preferred to let her initiate whatever it was she wanted to speak with him about.

"Can you speak to Mr. Bates for me?"

Thomas looked at her incredulously. He was the least qualified – and least interested – person on staff to do such a thing.

"What for?"

She flattened her stare and watched as he lifted the fag to his mouth.

"So that you can see why he's been acting the way he has."

He shrugged and lazily blew smoke from his mouth, "I think it an improvement, in all honesty. I never much see him now."

And it was true. With each passing day, it was as if the valet withdrew a little bit further from the group; he spent less and less of his leisure time in any of the common areas of the downstairs sections of Downton, and he took his meals quickly and in near silence. While Thomas could tell it upset some of the staff, he didn't mind it and would rather not get involved in the man's personal life.

Anna tried not to let her dislike for this man show on her face and tried again, "He's been like this ever since the accident."

"And why should I care?" He had his own set of problems from the accident, namely a memory that failed him now and again and cheating footmen who thought he was soft in the head. It was enough for him that he focused on his own career, ensuring Mr. Carson had no other reason to disapprove of him.

"Because he's unhappy!" she said, as if this alone would motivate him to act. Well boo-bloody-hoo, welcome to the ways of the world; no one was as happy as Anna was, and Thomas was certain a dose of reality would do the lady's maid well.

At his continued look of disinterest, she changed her tune, "Then as under-butler of Downton, address the poor attitude of one of your subordinates. It's affecting his work and the work of others."

She hoped that the note of his superior ranking would appeal to his generosity.

"I'll take it under advisement, Mrs. Bates" he drawled, not bothering to hide his derision. He knew his tone clearly spoke of his intent to file it under 'I don't give a toss' and signalled the end of the conversation, yet he was surprised to see the lady's maid hold her ground.

"He's changed, like you – not for the better, I mean. Don't think I don't see it," she laughed and Thomas riled at the way she callously implied he failing faculties; he knew that the others had noticed he had been easier to distract lately – the incident with Jimmy trying to shirk duties had been telling – but he had yet to encounter any direct conflict over it. Then he was suddenly acutely aware she was beginning to tear up. He was rendered mute. Was the consolation of weeping women under the purview of under-butlers, even if they were the cause of their hysterics?

"If you weren't just so stubborn..." she trailed off, her eyes now clear and sharp, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Barrow."

She wrenched open the door and left, leaving Thomas puzzled, but ultimately unchanged. If she thought a little show of waterworks would make him want to help John Bates, then she had another thing coming.

While Anna spoke with Thomas, Mrs. Hughes chose that moment to speak with Mr. Carson. She found him in the wine cellar, stirring the wine cask despite the late hour. She was unsurprised, however, by his fastidiousness. He had always been determined to have the one of the best wine cellars in Yorkshire.

At the door, she paused, "Mr. Carson, may I bother you for a moment?"

Looking up from his task, he replied, "Mrs. Hughes, I never consider our meetings a bother."

She smiled gently at the sweet nature the butler so often concealed and sat at one of the chairs, waiting for him to do the same.

"I won't be naïve enough to assume you've not thought about Mr. Bates' behaviour over the past weeks."

He frowned, "No, you are not."

"I think it's time that we nip this in the bud. Poor Anna has had enough, and I think the rest of the staff is sick of it too," she shook her head, "And rightly so. That man is a ball of tightly wound nerves."

Carson nodded, "The man is obviously troubled, but when I spoke with him, he ensured he was fine. Technically his work hasn't suffered, so I see no grounds to pursue it tactfully."

"You've spoken to him, have you? I'm sure it was you who spoke and it was he who gave monosyllabic answers."

He looked at her slightly abashed and nodded.

"I'll approach him again, and see if—" he stopped at her look.

"Actually, I think I have a better plan. Anna's speaking with Thomas right now, to see if he'll speak with Mr. Bates."

At his surprised look, she continued, "I thought considering their shared hardship, he might help Mr. Bates get through whatever is upsetting Mr. Bates."

"Do you think it wise?" Mr. Carson was glad to have the under-butler back to his responsibilities, if only to help lighten his own load of tasks that he had shouldered alone during the last few weeks. However much Thomas was proving to be eager, he was inattentive and forgetful at times. Carson didn't want to overtax an already strained mind.

"Thomas has never been a sympathetic sort, and I fear with his own difficulties, he's focused on himself most hours of the day," he elaborated.

Mrs. Hughes set her mouth in a thin line. She could not deny that, but she truly thought, after Thomas' own troubles and estrangement from the staff during the issue with Jimmy, he had grown a modicum of compassion.

"I think we should at least try. Now, I wasn't born yesterday, so I very much doubt Anna's having much luck with him now, but perhaps if you spoke with him."

Carson looked doubtful, but conceded, "If you think it hopeful, then I will at least try to wade through the man's stubborn self-interest."

Mrs. Hughes furrowed her brow at Carson's continued dislike for the under-butler, but once again, didn't argue. She rose from her chair and drifted towards the door.

"I'll speak with Thomas tomorrow, first thing, Mrs. Hughes. We shall see."

She nodded with a smile and bid him a good night. She hoped that they would be able to put this behind them all, for Anna's sake – and for everyone else's at Downton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Actual thing, I shit you not. The Kent Company made these machines. Unicorn and all. Google it. Also, sorry that this mostly superfluous scene took up quite a bit of the chapter... It had to be done.


	18. Counterveiling Woes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter I wrote that Jimmy was second footman, which I realise now might be wrong. I think? Idek. Ah! I need a beta/someone to tell me these things. Anyways, I guess this story is now a tiny bit AU. Apologies.

When Thomas first awoke to the chirping of birds at dawn, he knew in his heart it was going to be a tremendously trying day. It was an intuitive feeling, born from years of waking on the wrong side of the bed; he could feel it in the stiff twinge of pain radiating from his palm and the dull ache brewing behind his eyes. These were evidence for a plain statement of fact: the day was going to be shit, just like, more or less, all the other days he had witnessed since had been returning to work. Between scheming footmen, his own difficulties, and an expectant lady's maid, he was exhausted and wished to stay abed.

Therefore, it came with little surprise that Thomas was summoned by Carson shortly after breakfast, as it was just another hardship he would have to endure that day. He assumed he would hear an overdue assessment of his return to duty, presumably a reprimand for the idle and forgetful manner that coloured his performance – a distracted thought process that, really, Thomas had been struggling against since he had awoke in his hospital bed. What surprised Thomas was the thought that Carson had allowed his chance to lecture him go past due for so long; it was a fact that made Thomas all the more fearful of the intensity of Carson's ire, as it had been repressed for so long.

But mostly, as he stalked the halls, he was indignant for having been called away from his morning tasks only to be chastised; he was a busy man, and it wasn't like he was trying to be a particular nuisance.

Upon reaching the butler's office he found the door to be opened.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Carson?" he asked, his voice level though internally he was in flux.

With the knowledge that his performance was going to be judged and found lacking, Thomas couldn't help but remember the other's disgust and his own crushing despair from that particular moment when they both spoke as freely as they dared about "his kind" and he nearly lost everything – the effect all the more powerful by their respective positions – Carson seated behind his desk with a sour look of appraisal, Thomas standing uncertainly before him. He noticed his posture and righted himself, projecting not ease or confidence but a barely disguised belligerence.

Thomas only wished it didn't look like the posturing it was.

"Yes, Thomas. Please take a seat," Carson gestured towards the chair before his desk, his expression no less severe when Thomas lowered himself into the seat with a simmering of dread and shock. That particular expression was reserved for most unsavoury matters that made the butler feel uncomfortable within his own skin – a look that made Thomas reflexively wary, for he had been on the receiving end of its choleric more times than he cared to admit. Yet, it was rare to be offered the chance to sit with Mr. Carson, as a seated discussion between colleagues was as close to the butler suggesting that they _were_ colleagues as Thomas was ever going to get.

"I've asked you here to discuss a small matter," Carson started, pinning Thomas with a hard look.

"You must, by now, have settled yourself back amongst the staff since your… leave of absence. And since that time, you must have noticed that all is not as it once was. There are those who are failing to perform as expected, and the abbey and its staff are beginning to suffer for it."

"Yes, sir, I agree, but if I may," Thomas paused to gather his defence, "I am trying – to accommodate and carry out my responsibilities to the standards befitting of the abbey. Doctor Clarkson said it'll take some time, you see, but in the meantime I think—"

Carson interrupted Thomas with a raised hand, "While I find it heartening to hear of your commitment, Thomas, I am not talking about you. For once."

The older man seemed as much surprised as Thomas was.

"I have been made aware of your affliction and the effect it will have on your performance. His Lordship has extended his full support, and therefore, you have mine. No… I am referring to the difficulties with Mr. Bates."

Something tightened within Thomas. Of course it was Bates. How could he have expected anything different when the staff's loyalties forever laid with the man. He was incredibly relieved, however, that his performance was not under review.

"I believe Mrs. Bates has already spoken with you about it?"

"Yes," Thomas admitted shortly.

"And then can I assume you did not offer her any help?"

Thomas hid a scowl; he didn't appreciate being played this way. Anna had come with a request that was actually an order, setting him to fall before the butler as a heartless bastard – but more importantly, a deficient under-butler. Had he known it was a plan agreed upon by the others, he would have at least implied he would think about it. Thomas scanned the table's surface to escape the butler's glare while smoothing his own features into an unashamed indifference. He would not allow himself to be cowed for not offering help in a matter in which he really had no business interfering.

"Yes—,"

"Need I remind you it was with Mr. Bates charity that you find yourself in your current position as under-butler?"

"No!" Thomas cleared his throat, "No, Mr. Carson. I am quite aware."

It was a fact that caused quite a bit of inner tension for Thomas, as it stung bitterly that Mr. Bates had found him when he had been at his most vulnerable. After a lifetime of raging against heteronormative constraints, he had been on the verge of surrendering, ready to yield to the condemnation and proscription hurled at "his kind"; In one moment of weakness, he had been ready to lay down and turn the other cheek – he was just so tired of fighting – and turn his back on himself and all that he thought was an integral part to his being. And it was John Bates who had witnessed that dark moment; he had defended him to Lord Grantham, convincing Thomas to fend for something that he had been fighting for his whole life.

Thomas was ashamed – but very grateful – a confusing brew of emotions that made him cautious of every interaction with the valet because he had so desperately needed that help.

"And as under-butler, your first priority is to be Downton and supporting the staff to ensure its best operation."

"Of course, Mr. Carson."

"Then see to it that this doesn't drag out any longer than necessary. It has already gone on for far too long."

"Yes. I'll…" Thomas was unsure of what he should or _could_ offer as a ways to alleviate Mr. Bates' troubles. "I'll speak with him."

"See that you do. You may go."

Thomas lifted from his seat and left the office without another look at Carson. As he entered the hallway, he felt the seething anger bubble over from the dark part of him that he had kept hidden from Carson. He resented how he had been manipulated into the position of counsellor against his will – twice now reminded of his rank and its responsibilities and to whom he was indebted to for having it.

He took towards the stairs, allowing his weight to tread heavily against each step, anger settling darkly in his stomach. Once he reached the top, he was faced with the scope of his imposed undertaking and just how little he cared to assume its mission. Scowling, he prowled through the halls searching for the footmen in the southern wing, where Mrs. Hughes was directing the maids and footmen in cleaning.

When Mrs. Hughes saw the jutted jaw and pinched look to Thomas' face, she realised that it was one of his tumultuously moody days – where the easy smile disappeared in place of a scowl that scorned every living and inanimate object under the sun. His temperamental emotions had become expected since he had begun work again – a trait that Dr. Clarkson assured her and Mr. Carson was normal and would, hopefully, diminish as he healed – and Mrs. Hughes took them with a grain of salt however rare it was to know what disposition would strike the under-butler at any time. But when he snapped at the footmen to move a setee that had already been moved, she knew that his temper had less to do with his injury and more with his meeting with Mr. Carson. She excused herself quickly and headed towards the butler's office, silently offering the maids and footmen a prayer of protection.

"Mr. Carson." She greeted him.

"Ah, Elsie." He looked up from his desk, only pausing in his writing of a telegram briefly in order to look at the head housekeeper.

She took his fleeting glance as an invitation to enter the room and shut the door behind her. Turning back towards the seated butler, she asked a question to which she knew already the answer.

"Have you spoken to Thomas?"

He nodded briefly, still writing, "Yes, I have."

"And?" She prompted, as Carson was reluctant to expand. She took a seat across from him.

He stopped writing his telegram and looked at her with as much frustration as he dared to send his counterpart. The dealing with Thomas had left him uneasy.

"He agreed that he would speak with Mr. Bates, as I suggested." He stated, implying that that was all there was to say on the matter.

"That's it?"

"Well… Yes." His eyebrows rippled as he attempted to justify her exasperation.

With a sceptical look, she asked, "What exactly did you say to Thomas?"

"I directed that this kind of task was a part of the management that fell under the purview of under-butler," he said. At her continued dubious look, he said, "And I merely reminded him of Mr. Bates' role in his attainment of such a position that requires him to advise the staff in the first place."

"Heavens," She sighed, "No wonder he had a face like thunder upstairs."

Carson released his hold on the pen and set it against the desk, realising that the conversation would be a longer interruption to his task than he had originally anticipated.

"Speak plainly, Mrs. Hughes."

"Did you consider what you said to the man and how you said it, perhaps?"

"Thomas is not a horse, Mrs. Hughes. When I lead him to water, he will drink it because I demand it as butler of Downton."

"I thought we were appealing to his greater sense of compassion, not scaring him into an errand he would never do on his own."

"I do not share your misplaced faith in that man, but," he admitted, "he said that he would speak with Mr. Bates, and I believe him."

She rolled her eyes, "Oh, I imagine he'll speak with him alright – I'm just worried with what words."

She rose from her seat, "I should go and make sure he hasn't yet bitten the heads of any of the maids."

He nodded and watched as she left, the unsavoury look from before once again gracing his lined face.

* * *

The next time Mrs. Hughes saw Thomas, and Mr. Carson for that matter, was at the mid-day meal, as he had elected to abandon the southern wing for his other duties by the time she had returned.

Thomas was silent in his seat, barely touching his food. His face was not quite as muderous as it had been immediately following his meeting with the butler, having taken a pause in his morning to calm himself; however, it lessened to a petulance hidden by a very fragile veneer. In a perverse reversal from the previous day, he found himself starring at John throughout the meal, while the valet did his best to ignore the others in favour of his meal.

Thomas took the time to objectively evaluate John for the first time since he had left Dr. Clarkson's. The valet was looking the worse for wear, and that was if Thomas was being charitable. Dark smudges that spoke of sleepless nights bruised the delicate skin under his eyes, and the pudgy flesh of his cheeks looked more lined and hollow than normal. Bates looked haggard, and the way he hunched his body over his plate made him seem more like a condemned man awaiting his execution – more so than when the man had actually gone to jail for murder. Beside him, his wife seemed dull.

The longer Thomas observed the other man, the less angry he felt; his temper was slowly draining and being replaced with pity and – as loathed as he was to admit it – concern. It dawned on him that a strained ambience hung over the table as the other servants made stilted conversation between bites. Thomas thought with a grimace that maybe Mr. Carson had been right – this was something that needed to be dealt with.

A slight twinge of nerves fluttered in his stomach as he realised with dread he would, of course, be the one who had to deal with it.

When the meal concluded and everyone left the table, Thomas attempted to pull the valet aside in order to speak with him, but he had been distracted by Alfred. The footman had been told by Jimmy that he didn't need to sharpen knives anymore, but because it was Jimmy, he didn't believe him. By the time he had adequately assured Alfred that it no longer fell under his duties, John had disappeared completely. Thomas conducted a full search of the abbey to find the man without much success. As a final resort, Thomas pushed open the door to the courtyard and at first thought it empty. Just as he was turning to return indoors, he saw the figure of Mr. Bates sitting on a stack of emptied crates.

"I didn't expect to find you here, Mr. Bates," Thomas said as he walked further into the space, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

The gravel under his feet crunched loudly with each step as he made his way towards the valet. He stopped across from John and leaned against the brick, lighting a cigarette.

John's head sprung up at the intrusion – not quite shock colouring his face, for it was common knowledge that the courtyard was Thomas' primary location for smoking, but John had come to recognise the pattern of the younger man's habit. If his duties permitted – and barring special events, they always permitted – Thomas usually found a way to take several scheduled breaks throughout the day in the enclosed space. John had come to appreciate the solitude a few minutes in the courtyard could afford him, and he had began to adopt a pause in duties in the very same spot he occupied now whenever he knew Thomas to be occupied elsewhere in the abbey. Unfortunately, Thomas veered from his schedule today, and now the under-butler stood expectantly in front of him.

John hummed noncommittally and stared off into the middle distance in favour of looking at Thomas. He considered the merits of leaving.

"So what's this all about then?" He asked airily, hoping a stab at abrupt levity would make the task go faster. His hand carrying the cigarette pointed towards John's posture.

"Leave it alone, Thomas." John said wearily.

"I'm only asking how you are as an offering of goodwill."

"I'm fine," he said emphatically.

Thomas looked unimpressed, "Are you? That's not what I heard."

John pushed himself from the crate and collected his cane, "I. am. fine. Thomas."

Thomas knew he was wasting his chance to get this finished; if the man left, it would only prolong his own misery. A sudden thought came into mind, and he decided to take a gamble. If the crash was referred to in such cloaked and ominous terms by the others, then surely there was something to be said about it – something happened beyond waiting for rescue. He affected a bitingly cavalier tone.

"Well, I think someone's tellin' porky pies," he drawled, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette, "'cause I know what really happened out there, in the ravine."

The pointed scorn laden in Thomas' voice cut through John, and he dropped down onto the crate without fully realising he moved. The stress of the past few weeks of repressing so many anxieties, of sequestering himself from his lover, and reliving the past in unwanted detailed overwhelmed him in the moment. Thomas' sardonic accusation represented all of his own self-hate and self-doubt, made even worse by the fact that it reflected the under-butler's own tone. John's overpowering guilt clutched at his throat, and before he could clamp it all down, the rushing hysteria pressed against his chest until he couldn't breathe – couldn't think – teeming over in a barrage that prickled as tears against his eyes.

Thomas watched in alarm as the man before him crumpled against the stack of boxes and clutched at his face, shielding himself from view. Thomas stared on, wide-eyed, as he realised John was crying; in utter shock, he was unsure of what to do, wishing above all else he had stayed out of the courtyard, or at the very least, kept his mouth shut., never having anticipated this outcome. Oddly enough, it was a scene that he knew he would have loved – and gleefully laughed at – only a couple of years ago. Now he only felt uncomfortable, an unnecessary witness – an unwitting and resentful participant.

He was startled out of his fascination by a sudden sharp pain against his finger tips that caused him to drop his cigarette with a hiss. He looked at the small nub of rolled paper as it sat amongst the gravel, realising he had let it smoulder in his slack-jawed disbelief until it was spent. The smarting burn shook him from his reverie and he grabbed his pack from his pocket, pulling two cigarettes from its packaging. He placed both between his lips and lit them with a single match, sucking deeply to encourage the light as the flame licked the tips.

Thomas pinched one from his mouth and walked towards Bates.

He shoved the pluming cigarette into John's face, "Here."

Mortified, John attempted to shift away from the man, but when he saw the offering between woven fingers, he lowered his hands and took the cigarette with shaking fingers. He wasted no time in pulling it to lips and drawing a deep lungful, relishing the burn from the long toke.

Thomas withdrew back to the wall immediately.

The two smoked in silence, while John attempted to control himself – resentful that he had let himself go in front of Thomas but also feeling a sense of tired relief that comes with the shed of tears. He wiped at his wet cheeks.

Finally, the silence was too much for Thomas, and he said, "If that's fine, then I don't want to know what isn't."

John scoffed and continued to smoke, looking at the floor.

"I'm sorry. It's just—I'm sorry," John said once he could trust his voice. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers nervously.

He blurted, "I wish I could take it all back."

"A little cry never hurt anyone," Thomas winced at his own awkward words, but remembered his own vulnerability; he figured it - however clumsy - was an attempt at matching John's compassion; it was not unlike when he consoled soldiers who bleated and whined in their hospital beds when he and the nurses tended to their injuries.

"The crash," John clarified, "What I said, what I did… I wish I could turn back the clock and avoid it all."

"It would have certainly made my life easier," Thomas mused. He frowned when he noticed John wince.

He thought about what the other had said, "What you said?"

John opened his mouth to explain himself but stopped. There had been a calculated nonchalance to Thomas' words. John risked a glance at the under-butler and saw poorly disguised confusion; his eyes darted to the soft shadow of the bruise that leaked out from under Thomas' styled hair. He realised his mistake. His eyes hardened, though they were still wet with tears.

He ground out, "You really are a bastard."

Thomas mouth fell open in surprise, "What?"

"I can't believe you. You don't remember anything – you were speaking for yourself, you intolerable prick."

"Hey now, none o' that. Remember that _you're_ the one in everyone's bad books right now. I've been sent to sort you out."

"What?" John asked breathlessly. 'Bad books' sounded suspiciously like an exaggeration typical to the under-butler.

"You think your sad face hasn't gone unnoticed by the others?" Thomas asked with a raised brow, "I wish I could allow you your privacy – believe me I do – but I've been sent on an errand that requires the two of us to speak."

"Well, now you can say we've spoken. Mission accomplished, you may leave now."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple." Thomas looked as disappointed as John felt. The valet wondered if the staff as a whole sent Thomas to harangue him or if it was a particular individual.

"Who put you up to it?"

"Mr. Carson, as a delegation of responsibilities," Thomas said with derision, "And even the beloved Mrs. Bates."

"Anna?"

"Turns out your not prince charming anymore." Thomas said with a smirk.

John's face crumbled in a way that made Thomas worried he might cry again. As it was something he was sure both of them never wanted to repeat, he scrambled to distract Bates.

"Please don't make me say it." Thomas looked away from the man, unable to face him for what he was about to say.

John was silent and turned to look at Thomas' profile questionably.

"You're going to…," Thomas shook his head, "I say this once – _just once_ – and it stays here."

He took a deep breath to steel himself, "That silly woman acts as if the whole world begins and ends with you. Of course you're her bloody prince charming. The two of you share something unimaginably – _unattainably_ – perfect in the life that you've created here. It nearly makes me sick."

John scoffed.

Thomas looked back to John and rose his eyebrows, "But if you continue to be a moody bastard all the time then even you don't have enough luck to keep from cocking it up."

"Thank you, Thomas. I think you've shown the errors of my ways. I'll take it into consideration."

"I only mean— Look, I understand how hard it can be to accept help from an unexpected source, but someti—" Thomas looked to his feet, refusing to meet John's eyes.

"Save it, Thomas." John interrupted, as he was uninterested in hearing about any more praise he was undeserving of.

"No. I've never thanked you for it," Thomas persevered, "I owe you a great deal because you spoke for me when I couldn't myself, and I'd like to return the favour in a way."

John snapped, "Stop. You don't know anything about what happened, what I did and said to you…,"

"No, I don't know," Thomas admitted, "But something I do know? I am sick and tired of hearing about the ravine – " _our shared hardship_ ". I am tired of these headaches and I'm tired of parting my hair to hide the scar just so I can go upstairs and do my job.

"But what I'm really tired of is your sad sack attitude. Whatever happened in the ravine – in my books – stays there."

John scoffed, "It's not as simple as that."

"No, it's not. Nothing ever is, but you've to at least _try_ ," Thomas grimaced.

"I'm not here to absolve you of anything because I don't remember, and I've realised I don't care. Whatever you think you did isn't a problem. I've learned that there are some things not worth tormenting yourself over. It only twists you into something you never meant to be."

Thomas took another drag from his cigarette.

"You're lucky, you know? There are people here who love you. These people thought you a saint when you were accused of actual, bloody murder. Do you really think they care if you said a few bad words to me during a crisis?"

John smirked – he did have a point – but that didn't change how he felt about everything.

"I know. But there are certain… _expectations_ with the others – as if I'm supposed to be someone or something that I can't be."

He began to fiddle with his cane.

"Half the time everyone is walking on egg shells around me, and the other half they're so damned concerned." It was painfully awkward, but at the same time, feeling the way he did was just as uncomfortable.

"Then prove it to them that you don't need their concern. Tell Mrs. Bates how you feel – or don't. Go see Dr. Clarkson – or don't. Do whatever you bloody want, but at least make an effort. It only needs to be little things. " Thomas' face twisted in disappointment that John was surprised to find hurt him.

"I don't know if I can…" John trailed off.

"I think you can. And if you can't, I'll have to request your dismissal for upsetting the mood in the house."

Thomas' face was serious save for a slight upturn to his mouth.

"Bastard," John laughed. Mr. Carson would ignore that request, just as he had done since John had been hired.

Thomas stood and handed John another cigarette.

"It's a great life, if you don't weaken[1]," he said with a smirk as he offered a flame.

Thomas stood, throwing his own spent cigarette to the ground, and walked towards the door. John watched as the door shut behind him, thinking about what Thomas had said.

* * *

When the staff assembled for their tea, John made a point to be on time for the meal. He positioned himself in his regular seat and watched as the others filed in slowly. He saw Thomas breeze in minutes later; their eyes briefly met as the under-butler pulled himself closer to the table. Thomas broke the contact first and followed Daisy's entrance as she delivered to the table a steaming dish.

John heard his wife before he saw her. She accompanied Mrs. Hughes into the room as they had both been in the same wing together.

John rose and pulled her chair out. She stopped and looked at him with a frown, to which he merely lifted a side of his lips in a conciliatory gesture. She sat down gingerly onto the seat and allowed him to push her in. She looked first to Mr. Carson, then to Mrs. Hughes, and then stopped at Thomas, who was listening (almost too) intently to the story Jimmy was relating at the other end of the table. Mrs. Hughes smiled gently when Anna looked to her again having noticed the valet's behaviour.

As John settled beside her, she looked back to her husband, but he was engrossed in his plate.

Small steps.

* * *

After his own supper, John climbed the stairs to reach His Lordship's rooms. He could hear the echo of the dinner gong just as he was closing the door to the dressing room. Turning towards the oak armoire, he began to set out the clothes for the earl to wear during the dinner service. Just as he had laid out the final piece, Robert entered the room.

"Good evening, Bates." He said with a curt nod.

"Your Lordship," John said by way of greeting, as the other man positioned himself in front of the full length mirror.

John began to undress his employer, pulling off the jacket in one elegant motion. After placing the piece on a hook to be hung later, he turned back towards the earl. He noticed a gold chain running into the under vest.

"Your watch, my lord," John spoke of the time piece attached to his vest.

"Ah, yes, Barrow was able to repair it for me. In fact it keeps better time than it ever has."

John smiled, "That's very good, my lord."

Robert noticed the twitch of his valet's lips and paused to marvel at them in the mirror. John disconnected the watched and placed it on the table next to him, continuing to remove pieces of the earl's clothing unaware of the scrutiny.

"Thomas can be very skilful when he wants to be," Bates said with a wry smile, further shocking Robert.

The earl offered a smile, although it was bemused, "I suppose you're right."

For the remainder of his dressing, Robert spent more time watching his valet in the mirror than his own reflection. John still seemed tired, but the guarded look to his eyes had dissipated.

"You seem different, Bates," Robert finally remarked. "You are all right, aren't you?"

John paused in brushing the lint from the earl's back. "I think I will be, my lord." **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A line stolen from Mr. Standfast by John Buchan, written in 1918.
> 
> There, the beast is over. I hope you enjoyed it. It was a fun to play around with these characters, but I'm glad it's over. Thanks for reading! Hopefully this ending didn't seem too insincere to you.


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